The Price of Loyalty
by abitweird
Summary: Archer, Trip and Reed are sent on an undercover mission to Outpost 66, a dangerous place Reed knows all too well from his days in Section 31. They must survive and accomplish their mission at any cost, as Archer learns a great deal more about Reed's shady past and strong sense of loyalty. Rated for a lot of swearing, graphic description of injury and violence, and hurt/comfort.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I am truly overwhelmed and humbled by the positive reviews of my first fic; thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read it an left such wonderfully kind comments. I actually started writing this before my first story but abandoned it part-finished; it was your lovely encouragement that inspired me to pick it up and complete it. I hope that you enjoy it. Thank you!

* * *

The Price of Loyalty

* * *

The Starfleet Charter, Article 14, Section 31, allows extraordinary measures to be taken in times of extreme threat. The wording of the Article is purposely vague, drafted ambiguously, granting a wide range of illicit powers to the people who work covertly for the shadowy establishment known only as Section 31. Very few officers within Starfleet had ever had cause to know of the elusive Section 31; fewer still had any real knowledge of the inner workings and the operations undertaken by this most ruthless of organisations. Even the highest members of the admiralty only uttered the name behind closed doors, preferring to publicly deny all knowledge of such an organisation. However, there was one man in Starfleet who knew, better than most, exactly what it meant to work for Section 31, and the sorts of operations undertaken by its recruits. This one man, who knew above all else the cost that one paid to work for Section 31; the organisation with the highest mortality rate of any establishment affiliated with Starfleet; the elitist of the elite; the men and women who boldly went where others feared to tread.

And, unfortunately for him, that man, one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of the Starship _Enterprise_ , was about to be dragged further back into that dangerous, shadowy world than he would ever have wanted to go.

* * *

The chirping of the communications channel snapped Malcolm Reed awake with a startled gasp. Blearily, he blinked at his alarm clock; it was 02:43 ship's time, he wasn't due on duty until 08:00. The channel chirped again, this time with a vocal summons.

"Captain Archer to Lieutenant Reed, please respond."

Flinging off the duvet, he stumbled out of bed, staggered over to his desk, activating the two-way channel.

"Reed here, go ahead," he replied, quickly, rubbing sleep from his eyes, even as he was reaching for a uniform.

"Report to my office immediately, Lieutenant. Archer out."

Reed winced slightly at the tone – the captain sounded royally peeved, and Reed was forced to wonder what the hell he'd done to put his commanding officer in a mood so bad that he would receive such a peremptory summons at this unholy hour. He quickly changed into his uniform and finger-combed his hair into place even as he was running through the corridors towards the turbo-lift. He was outside the captain's office in less than ten minutes, still shaking off the last vestiges of sleep as he pressed the buzzer.

"Come," said a sharp voice from within.

Reed stepped through and snapped to attention; "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Sit down, Lieutenant," Archer gestured towards the chair opposite his desk, as he interlaced his fingers and scowled at his subordinate.

Reed sat, outwardly composed, inwardly wondering if he was about to get thrown in the brig again. For the life of him, he could not imagine why.

"About an hour ago, I received a transmission from Admiral Sloan," Archer began, tersely, "It seems that five days ago, a member of Ambassador Soval's staff was attacked while on Earth and murdered. This staff member was carrying key tactical information and top-secret plans for a critical conference between Humans, Vulcans, Andorians and Tellarites. Starfleet intelligence indicates that the information has been stolen by a small cell of xenophobic criminals who intend to sell the information to the highest bidder."

Reed processed this information quickly, still none the wiser as to why he had been summoned, and why his commanding officer appeared to be so angry with him. Archer caught his expression and the captain's frown deepened slightly.

"The assassin was tracked leaving Earth," the captain continued, his tone dark, "and followed to Outpost 66. I understand you are familiar with the location, Lieutenant."

Reed's heart skipped a beat, and he felt the blood drain from his face. Archer must have seen his expression, as the captain's face softened, but only slightly.

"The Starfleet officers who attempted to apprehend the killer met with no success; in fact, they barely escaped with their lives," Archer stated, glancing briefly at his computer terminal, "Admiral Sloan has ordered me to take you to Outpost 66, where we are to locate and apprehend the fugitive and recover the stolen data."

"Captain..." Reed's voice failed him, and he licked his dry lips, "sir... have you ever been to Outpost 66?"

"I've heard of it," Archer responded, in a grim tone, "it's an independent colony outside of Starfleet jurisdiction, founded by ex-boomers, traders and social outcasts, and a haven for shady dealings from what I've heard. When Admiral Sloan told me a certain Security Officer Harris had recommended you for the recovery mission, I decided to check the database to find out why. Do you know what I found?"

"As an Ensign, I... I was there, on an undercover mission," Reed fought to keep his voice steady and neutral, "I had to pose as an arms dealer; a mercenary for hire... I was there to gather information on a group of terrorists who were planning an attack on a ranking member of Starfleet in an attempt to sabotage relations with the Vulcans. I was involved in apprehending them and preventing the attack, amongst other missions. I also had general orders to investigate any matters pertaining to Starfleet security and the safety of Earth, sir."

"Which is pretty much exactly what the file says," Archer agreed, with sharpness to his tone that made Reed flinch internally, "my understanding was, however, that I was meant to have full and unrestricted access to your rather interesting past, Lieutenant, not the sanitised version presented in your Starfleet records."

"I handed over all of the data files, captain. There are things in there that I'm not proud of, but I handed everything over."

"Then why is this one file encrypted?" Archer demanded, turning the monitor to face Reed.

When he saw the name of the file that Archer was trying to open, he felt his jaw drop slightly and his cheeks began to colour with embarrassment.

"Oh God," he murmured, raising a hand to his mouth, "I never even... I forgot... captain, sir, I'm so sorry – I encrypted that file myself; I didn't want anyone to see it... I'd forgotten all about it..."

"I want to know what it is, Lieutenant!" snapped Archer, "We agreed that there would be no more secrets – if you expect me to trust you..."

Wordlessly, Reed reached out and typed in the password to decode the encryption. He looked away as an image filled the screen. Archer swung the screen back around to face him, and did a double take. His anger evaporated like a snowflake in a volcano as his eyebrows shot up in amazement at what he saw.

"Is this...? Oh my God - this is you!"

"Yes, sir," Reed closed his eyes, resisting the urge to flee back to his quarters and look himself in there for the rest of their five year mission, "that's... that was my disguise... my cover. Outpost 66 is not a... civilised place, captain."

Archer was silent for a long moment as he looked at the photograph, and then at his armoury officer, and then back at the photograph again. He leaned back in his chair, and surveyed Reed carefully, wondering how many other surprises the reserved Brit might be hiding.

"Are the... are the tattoos real?"

Reed actually did squirm a little this time, and Archer could not suppress a chuckle at the younger man's obvious discomfort, which only made Reed blush a little more.

"It says here that your cover name was Kyle Woolf," Archer noted, "is that an active pseudonym, Lieutenant?"

Forcing himself to sit a little straighter in his chair, Reed tried to concentrate as he was assailed by a flood of unpleasant memories.

"Kyle Woolf was never officially terminated," he said, evenly, hating the sounds of the official Section 31 terminology even as he spoke, "his records currently list his whereabouts as "unknown", and is suspected to be hiding out in Orion space."

"So if he were to suddenly make a miraculous reappearance, it wouldn't raise too much suspicion...?"

"It's Outpost 66, sir. Everyone there is suspicious of everyone else. But no, Kyle Woolf would fit right in there; especially if he started to spread word around that he was interested in valuable Starfleet secrets that he could sell to his Orion allies."

Archer nodded his understanding, looking back at the picture again. The high cheekbones and grey eyes were immediately recognisable, but the rest... the face staring back at him from the screen did so with a mocking leer Archer would never have ascribed to his tactical officer. Archer cleared his throat and glanced back at Reed.

"I'll be alerting T'Pol to the fact that you and I will be off the ship for a week or so," the captain said, at last, "she, Commander Tucker and Dr. Phlox will be the only ones who know the full details of our mission. We'll be rendezvousing with a Vulcan cruiser at 05:00 to take on board a salvaged Orion shuttle. Trip will get it operational and will accompany us to Outpost 66. I need you to advise us on appropriate weapons, clothing, disguises, and so on. Dr Phlox will carry out any necessary, ah, cosmetic alterations..."

"Captain," Reed spoke, and then hesitated, "please – do I have to be him?"

Archer paused; he could not recall ever seeing Reed so... anxious... before. But the captain was forced to nod his head.

"It's my understanding that Kyle Woolf has a number of allies and contacts still operating in and around Outpost 66," he finally responded, in a measured voice, "don't you think that would come in useful on our mission, Lieutenant?"

Reed swallowed, hard, composing himself quickly; "Yes, sir. Of course. My apologies... it's just that..."

Archer reached out and swiftly shut down the computer screen, closing it and giving Reed his full attention.

"What is it, Malcolm?" he queried, his tone casual, his earlier anger gone as if it had never existed, "What are you not telling me?"

"Sir," Reed hesitated, and then looked up, his grey eyes looking haunted, "Outpost 66... It brings out the worst in people. It's a rough place, the people who live there are desperate and ruthless. Mercy is a weakness and it will get you killed. We may have to do... questionable things... to obtain the information we've been ordered to retrieve."

"We are operating with Admiral Sloan's authority," Archer replied, "and where that doesn't extend far enough; I've been told that you fall under Harris's remit. I like it even less than you do, Malcolm, but that information is vital to Starfleet and we have been ordered to recover it at any cost. It also means that, for the purposes of this mission, you'll be calling most of the shots."

"Me, sir?"

This shocked Reed to his core; he could not envisage giving orders to his own captain. Kyle Woolf, however, did not take orders from anyone...

"Relax, Malcolm," Archer offered him a small smile, "Trip and I will be accompanying you; we'll follow your lead but the ultimate responsibility is mine. Think you can get us prepared with everything we'll need?"

"Yes, sir," Reed inclined his head, "if that's all, captain?"

"That will be all, Lieutenant. Dismissed."

* * *

Reed returned to his quarters. The bedding was still rumpled and in disarray after his hasty exit earlier, but he had no inclination to return to it. He doubted sleep would be much of an option now; his head was reeling and his heart was pounding. Kyle Woolf. Bloody hell. Not him. Anybody but him...

Sitting down on his bed, Reed dropped his head into his hands and permitted himself a moment of absolute despair. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Captain Archer had no idea what he was getting them into. Reed toyed with the idea of asking to go on the mission alone, but he knew Archer would never allow it – the man's sense of duty was even stronger than Reed's. Reed had long ago accepted that his sense of duty would probably get him killed, while Archer seemed to think that his protected the captain from everything the universe could throw at him.

 _See if he still feels as dutiful and noble once he sees Outpost 66,_ Reed thought, sourly.

Getting to his feet, he made the bed automatically, out of habit. He paced his quarters, and then sat down at his desk. He activated the computer; reading through the mission briefing Archer had sent him. He went cold when he realised he had also received a transmission from Harris. He read the contents, and then he swallowed the lump in his throat and accessed his old mission logs. He automatically decoded the highly classified information, but he barely needed to read the words to remember his time at the hellish outpost. He opened the file Archer had forced him to reveal, and stared in revulsion at the face leering back at him from the screen. It wasn't that Reed had hated being Kyle Woolf, per se; he just didn't want his captain – his friends – to see him as that person. It had been a role to play, nothing more. Kyle was everything that Malcolm was not; a rough and ready pirate, cutthroat, dirty and duplicitous, and for all the useful contacts he had made – and maybe a couple of friends – he had three times as many enemies waiting for his return.

With a shuddering sigh, he encrypted the picture again, and sent it to Dr. Phlox, marked 'top secret' with a brief note that simply read; _I'll need to look like this._

With that, he left his cabin, and strode down to the armoury. Ensign Miller, the Gamma shift supervisor, glanced up in shock at seeing him.

"Sir," the ensign greeted him, quickly, casting a quick glance around the armoury to make sure nothing was out of place, "I'm sorry sir; I wasn't expecting you to be on duty for a few more hours..."

"I... have some rather urgent work for Captain Archer," Reed told him, "it can't wait, unfortunately. I'll carry out the rest of the duty shift. You're relieved, ensign."

"Yes, sir..." Miller looked confused, but was not about to question his immediate superior over an early finish to his shift.

When the ensign had gone, Reed checked that the armoury was clear of personnel, and crossed over to a sealed storage locker. Keying in the code, he opened it up, revealing an array of weapons. Each one was alien in origin, a collection Reed had built up during his time on _Enterprise_ , all confiscated or salvaged from their encounters with the less friendly people they had met on their journey. At the bottom of the box was the only weapon he had brought on board with him when he had joined the crew. He wondered why he had never parted with it; possibly because he had built it – an entirely customised weapon he had made by himself, for himself... for Kyle Woolf. He picked it up, noting the dull patina on the muzzle and the depleted power cell. With a sigh, he sat down at a work bench, and began to take the weapon apart. Kyle Woolf, like Malcolm Reed, had, at least, always maintained his weaponry...


	2. Chapter 2

Reed worked until 05:00, when a ship-wide announcement alerted the crew that they were rendezvousing with a Vulcan cruiser to take on vital supplies. He heard his name summoned to the cargo bay, along with Captain Archer and Commander Tucker. Stowing the weapons back in the secure crate and keying in his personal code to lock it again, Reed headed off and was the first to arrive at the cargo bay. Archer was a close second, with Trip a few minutes behind him. Archer, like Reed, was well-turned out in his uniform; Trip looked as though he'd fallen into his on his way out of bed and through the door, his hair askew and his eyes still bleary with sleep. Reed felt slightly mollified that he had not been the only one dragged unceremoniously out of bed that morning. Trip was giving him odd looks; Reed sincerely hoped that Captain Archer had not shared the photograph with the engineer. Trip would find out soon enough what Kyle Woolf looked like.

None of them spoke as the Orion shuttle was deposited neatly into the cargo bay by the Vulcan cruiser's tractor beam. As soon as the bay re-pressurised, Trip nodded the all-clear and opened the doors, allowing them access. As soon as Reed laid eyes on the craft, he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, aloud, "I don't believe it...!"

"Malcolm?"

"Sir," Reed could not take his eyes off the Orion craft, "this – this was my ship! I mean, it's Woolf's ship – a smuggler's ship. She's called _Chanteloup_. When they said it was a salvaged ship, I never thought..."

He trailed off, staring up at the craft. Archer looked at it doubtfully. It looked like it had seen the wrong side of a few too many battles. The hull was painted in a mottled brown and tan camouflage scheme, with some rather dubious graffiti scrawled on it in a number of different languages. On the nose of the hulking shuttle was daubed a strange symbol in red paint; a squat, stylised horizontal oval, above which were four circles, each of which was then topped by four thin, elongated triangles. The craft was bigger than a Starfleet shuttle pod and virtually filled the bay. It had a narrow, pointed nose and long, sweeping wings. It obviously carried some light weaponry across the wings, and the scorch marks around the engines showed it had seen a lot of atmospheric use. Archer folded his arms, looking up at it, resigned to his mission.

"Trip, you've got until 17:00 to get this thing up to scratch," he said, "Just you, I'm afraid. Nobody else has clearance."

"I know the systems, captain," Reed replied, confidently, "as soon as I've finished with weapons and... disguises... I'll be able to lend a hand."

"Do it," Archer nodded, "gentlemen, I expect to meet you here at 17:00 ready to depart. Get to it!"

* * *

Twelve hours was not enough time for Reed to do everything he wanted to do before leaving the _Enterprise_ ; nowhere near enough. He prioritised weapons first, knowing all too well from first-hand experience that they would be needed. He was careful to ensure that there were no Starfleet components or weapons; it had meant a lot of modification but this simply made the weapons all the more authentic; nobody on Outpost 66 would raise any questions about a scratch-built particle weapon, but the merest whiff of a Starfleet phase pistol would get them shot dead on sight. He also had a few knives and bladed weapons stashed away which he took out of storage and dusted off, making sure the blades were sharp. He packed the weapons into a non-descript cargo container, along with a few random communicators and scanning devices, again ensuring the case was in no way branded, and went to store them aboard the _Chanteloup_.

"Whatcha got there?" Trip queried, appearing from underneath the navigational console.

"Weapons – our first priority," Reed replied, placing the crate on the floor, "you can take your pick once we've got clothing sorted out."

"I'm gonna need a shower and a shave first," Trip commented, wiping an oil-stained hand down the front of his already-soiled uniform.

"Best not to, actually," Reed told him, "The sorts of people you'll find at Outpost 66 aren't exactly renowned for their personal hygiene. The smell of soap is as good as a target painted on your back with a big sign saying 'Starfleet'."

Trip grimaced; "Sounds like a nice place."

"You have no idea."

Reed's expression turned dark for a moment, and for the first time, Trip felt a genuine sense of foreboding about their coming mission; he knew it took a lot to make Malcolm Reed anxious. He settled for crawling back under the console he was working on, surveying the damaged systems. Someone at Starfleet had obviously made a good attempt at fixing it, but the whole system was a jerry-rigged nightmare to begin with, regardless of the battle damage.

"God, Malcolm, what did you do to this thing? It looks like it went ten rounds with a Klingon cruiser!"

"An Orion raider, actually," Reed managed a dry smile, "I did well to outrun them – crash landed on the wrong side of the planet though. I was lucky one of my fellow operatives was able to track me down... I'd given _Chanteloup_ up for lost, I never realised she was salvaged."

"You really need to fill me in on some of this stuff," Trip shook his head, as he bypassed a relay that was too burned out to be worth replacing in their limited time; "Okay – no showers, no shaving, scruffy clothes, weapons, looking disreputable – anything else I'll need to know?"

"I'll be creating fake identity cards for you and Captain Archer," Reed said to him, "do you have a preferred pseudonym? It needs to be a name you'll remember and respond to. Charles Tucker is a Starfleet officer. He can't go to Outpost 66 – but a rogue mercenary with a few scores to settle will fit right in. You'll have to act your part, sir – no real names or ranks, even in private."

"Gotcha," Trip sounded uncertain, "uh – any suggestions on the name? I'm kinda tied up thinking about navigational relays at the moment..."

Reed thought for a brief second.

"How about Charlie Drucker?" he suggested, "It's close enough to your real name that you'll remember it easily and it sounds similar enough that you'll respond to it naturally."

"Sounds great," Trip said, distantly, from beneath the console, "so... what are you going to call the captain?"

"Jack Bowman."

"I see what you did there. That's clever."

"Not really, but thanks..." Reed shook his head; the names were a little obvious, but deep cover for a prolonged period was not on the cards in this instance, and he did not have time to teach his colleagues the art of building not just a fake name, but a whole, fake identity. They really were in for a shock when they met up again later.

Excusing himself from Trip, he went to send a message to the quartermaster regarding clothing, and set about creating the identity cards – it was unlikely anyone would ever ask to see them, but Reed wished to be thorough. This done, he turned his attention to stocking the _Chanteloup_ ; the ration packs aboard _Enterprise_ were out of the question as they were all branded with the Starfleet logo. He could not risk having any Starfleet issue items even aboard the _Chanteloup_ , just in case the ship was boarded – which was a distinct possibility given the area of space they were heading through. He sent an urgent request to chef for what supplies could be spared and asked that they be delivered to the door of the cargo bay in a sealed container, for him to collect.

* * *

Reed worked solidly all day, nonetheless finding time to spend a few hours with Trip in the _Chanteloup,_ until Trip was summoned to the medical bay for his 'cosmetic alterations'. Reed had watched him go, and could not suppress a slight smile; he had given Phlox detailed instructions on what he needed to do but had aggravated Trip by refusing to tell him anything about what was to happen. Trip had thought a disguise meant a change of clothes and a slight lack of personal hygiene. Reed had other ideas.

When Trip reappeared an hour later, he did not look impressed.

"I swear, Malcolm, I'm gonna make you pay for this. Ensign Hess saw me in the corridor and called for security!"

"I heard the intruder alert," Reed nodded, calmly, "looking good, Charlie."

"I hate being called Charlie. It's 'Trip', Malcolm."

"You agreed to it. You're Charlie Drucker, so from now on, while you're wearing those clothes, you're 'Charlie'. You need to get used to it."

"So what am I supposed to call you? Kyle, wasn't it?"

"Actually, you and the Captain will have to get into the habit of calling me Mr. Woolf... it's complicated. I'll explain later..."

Reed stepped back, running a critical eye over Trip's appearance. The engineer's blonde hair was still cut a bit too neatly, but it was messy and looked slightly unwashed. Reed knew that it was a three-day journey to Outpost 66, which at least gave them time to work on their 'dirty pirate' aspect. "Charlie" was wearing torn blue jeans and chunky, steel toe-capped boots. He had on a grey shirt and a brown leather jacket, all of which were far too clean. Reed quickly realised he was going to have a lot to do over the next three days to prepare his colleagues enough that they wouldn't stand out immediately on arrival at Outpost 66. Trip was also wearing a black belt with a leather holster and a number of equipment pouches for tools. He had a gold earring in his right ear and a rough tattoo of a skull on the back of his left hand.

"You'll do for now," Reed said, a little reluctantly, "We'll finish the rest off later. I'd better go and get... changed... myself. I've just brought the targeting sensors online and the weapon systems are functional. Could you take a look at the water recycling system? There's an intermittent fault somewhere and I couldn't track it down."

"I'll see what I can do," Trip grumbled, stomping into the shuttle; "God, Malcolm, these boots are clunky!"

With a slight sigh, Reed did not reply, and left the cargo bay with a heavy heart. It was going to be a long three days... and on the other hand; it was not going to be long enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Captain Archer strode into the cargo bay at 16:30, knowing that he still had half an hour before departure but wanting to check that all of the arrangements were in place. He had attracted more than a few startled glances from the crewmembers he had passed in the corridors, but he'd paid them little heed. He wore tan coloured trousers, a black t-shirt with a white skull emblazoned across the front; and an old denim jacket that had been patched and faded with age. At his waist was a heavy holster; the tattoos on his arms still itched slightly but Phlox had done a good job of making them look like they'd been there forever. His hair had been cut to a very short buzz-cut, giving him a more menacing air. A thick silver chain hung around his neck and the tattoo of a spider on the side of his face was just a little bit too realistic and had made him jump when he'd first looked in the mirror. He strolled into the cargo bay, and was met by Trip. They both did an immediate double-take, and then smiled in amused recognition as they took in each other's appearances.

"Cap'n! Wouldn't want to meet you in a dark alley dressed like that."

Archer laughed; "It's 'Jack', Trip. You've got to get into the habit of calling me Jack."

"Then you gotta call me 'Charlie'," Trip's face twisted in distaste, "Malcolm said I agreed to it. Truth is I wasn't really listening at the time."

"Keep the sour look, it suits your pirate persona," Archer grinned.

Trip glared at him, but stood aside so that Archer could stow his luggage in the hold of the _Chanteloup._ The quarters were extremely cramped but functional. The cockpit was narrow and housed the navigational console with a single pilot's chair, while the optional co-pilot sat to the left to monitor secondary systems when necessary. The cockpit was cramped but there was a sofa available for passengers. Beyond the cockpit, there was a small room which contained both a kitchen and a workbench with tools. Next door to this was what looked like a short corridor, but which was in fact the crew quarters – two fold-down single beds were tucked up against the bulkhead while not in use. Clearly it was intended that someone was going to be awake at all times, with only two beds between the three of them. To the left at the end of this sleeping area was a tiny bathroom, and beyond this were the cargo bay and the engine core. Archer nodded in approval; it certainly looked the part of a smuggler's ship.

"How's Malcolm getting on?" Archer asked, conversationally, "Have you seen him yet?"

Trip snorted; "Mr Woolf, you mean? He left about an hour ago to get changed. He seemed to think I was still too clean."

"Three days flight with no shower, Trip – sorry, 'Charlie' – it'll wear off soon enough."

"Great, sounds lovely," Trip groused.

Trip had just finished showing Archer around the basic controls and functions of the heavily modified Orion scout ship, when they heard the cargo bay door open. They exchanged a glance, and then headed to the shuttle hatch to greet the third member of the party. Archer knew what to expect; still, it was a surprise to see Reed in his get-up. Trip, who had not had any kind of forewarning, almost fell out of the shuttle.

"Malcolm?!" he exclaimed, incredulously.

Archer could not prevent the smile that spread across his face. The normally stoic and reserved Reed was wearing black leather trousers with heavy-looking, metal-studded boots. He wore a tight-fitting black tee-shirt and a black leather jacket with the sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows. He had also gained tattoos; a snake coiled around his left forearm, surrounded by flames. His right hand and arm were covered with stylised patterns in a tribal style. On the left hand side of his neck, a black outline of a wolf's head howled in silhouette against a full moon. Reed's hair had been dyed a jet black and gelled up into spikes. He had a gold hoop in his right ear and a distinctive silver cross hung on a chain around his neck. He was sporting a rough yet stylish goatee. The holster on his belt at his right hand side held an energy weapon that Archer could not identify; he had a knife strapped to his right thigh, and he had a rifle slung across his back on a leather strap.

"Who're you callin' Malcolm?" the figure before them took a step forward, "Ain't never heard of no Malcolm. Name's Woolf. Kyle Woolf... but you can call me 'Mr. Woolf'. And don't you forget it, mates."

The smile he gave them was chilling to behold; Archer and Trip exchanged wide-eyed looks. Archer was beginning to realise he had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Reed – 'Mr. Woolf' – shouldered his rifle, and strode aboard the shuttle, carelessly flinging his bag on the floor and hanging his rifle on a hook beside the hatch. Archer noted the action was done so casually that Reed must have done it hundreds of times when he had been forced to live as Kyle Woolf in deep cover. He reflected on how easy it was to slip into old habits, as Reed dropped into the pilot's seat, and began to power up the systems, running through the pre-flight checks with practiced ease.

"Shut the bloody door, would you, Jack? There's about to be one helluva breeze in here if you don't."

Trip nudged the stunned Archer with a chuckle; "He means you... Jack."

"Oh! Yes, of course..." Archer reached out and closed the hatch.

With that, the cargo bay depressurised, and they left behind the last traces of civilisation that they would see for some time.

* * *

"Modified Vulcan neural inhibitor or phased particle hand pistol?"

"Uh... which is better?"

"You'd better have the inhibitor, Charlie, it's less likely to blow up in your hand. This is stun, this is kill, don't mix the two up if you gotta ask any questions after the shootin' stops, got it?"

"Yes, Mr Woolf."

"Good lad. Jack, you've got this – an Orion disruptor. Be bloody careful with it, the stun setting hurts like a bastard – it'll put a human out for the best part of two days and probably leave the poor sod with one helluva hangover."

It was going to take Archer a long, long time to get over having listened to his stiff and proper armoury officer talking with such a slurred accent; it was still distinctly British, but a much more regional, indistinct version than the very correct way in which Malcolm spoke as Lt. Reed, peppered with colourful idioms and occasional swearing. Archer was realising more and more that there was a lot more to Reed than he had ever imagined.

"Uh, right, thanks Mr Woolf."

Reed stepped back from the weapons locker, pleased to note that his two 'lads' were looking more the part. Three days of close confinement, working on the _Chanteloup_ and a lack of a shower or shave had taken their toll; all three of the men looked dirty, scruffy and rough, with thick stubble and hardened, weary expressions. Trip and Archer had learned quickly; their language even between themselves had become coarser and they were finally referring to each other appropriately. Reed grimaced to himself as he turned away; the first time he'd told Archer to "just do as you're fuckin' told, Jack", he'd thought the captain was going to have a fit. The truth was he'd forgotten himself for a moment and had simply reacted as Kyle Woolf when Archer had queried something. This mission was going to be harder than he had thought; he would have to walk a very fine line between Mr Woolf and Lt. Reed; he could not just be one or the other as he would have preferred.

"Right, lads, there's one more thing to do before we land," he said, reaching into a compartment in a storage locker and pulling out a marker pen, "you gotta know that the folks down in '66 don't like talkin', so don't talk unless you're talked to. You can say everythin' you need to with your face. They got a code down there and as long as you got the right symbols they'll know what you want without you sayin' a bloody word."

Reed turned to face the dirty, tiny mirror on the inside of his locker door. He drew a thick, black line under his left eye.

"What does that mean?" Trip asked, as Reed turned to him and drew the same line under his left eye.

"Means you're lookin' for somethin', Charlie," Reed told him, as he drew on Archer's face as well, "and this here – this means you're willin' to pay good money for it."

He drew three small triangles underneath the line. He then drew two small diagonal, dotted lines next to the triangles, followed by an upside down 'V' shape.

"This means that we're lookin' for information," he pointed to the two lines, "an' this here means the information we're lookin' for is about Starfleet. This next one says we're workin' for Orions, so no bugger'll think we're in it for ourselves and try to take us out before the biddin' starts."

He drew a circle with a squiggly line on top. He drew the same symbols in the same places on Archer's face, and then on Trip's.

"Don't worry lads, it comes straight off with a bit of water," Reed smirked, as they eyed each other doubtfully, "this next one's important, so make sure you put it straight back on if you rub it off."

Reed marked them both with the next symbol in the centre of their foreheads, and with exaggerated care. Archer glanced into the mirror, examining the markings. It was the same stylised oval with four smaller circles and elongated triangles he had seen on the hull of the craft.

"You keep that mark on you, lads, you got that?"

"Yes, Mr Woolf," the other two men chorused, together.

Reed nodded in approval, as Trip turned to examine the marking in the mirror.

"What does this mean, exactly?" he asked, curiously.

Reed reached up to the collar of his t-shirt, and pulled it down as far as it would stretch, revealing the left hand side of his chest. There, directly over his heart, was tattooed the same symbol, albeit more artistically rendered. He released the t-shirt as he turned towards them again.

"It means you're mine, boys," he told them, looking each of them in the eye in turn, "and you gotta know, that's important. Means you can't be bought or sold by any bugger else. It means some folks'll treat you nice, because they wanna be nice to me, and some'll try to kill you, because they wanna kill me, you got that?"

Archer suddenly realised that the symbol was a stylised wolf's paw with claws outstretched; he gave Reed a startled look, obviously realising that Kyle Woolf was more well-known than he had previously believed.

"Got it, Mr Woolf," Trip nodded, "your symbol, right."

The engineer's eyes looked distinctly worried. Reed nodded and clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.

"Don't look so worried, Charlie, you lads are my most valuable asset and I ain't gonna let anyone hurt ya."

Reed turned back to the mirror, and drew a few extra symbols; a thick black line under his right eye to match the one on his left, with a smaller version of the wolf's paw beneath it. He then marked a line vertically from above his right eye to just below it, finishing at the cheekbone. He drew an upturned 'V' on his right cheek, and then drew three vertical lines through it.

"This mark here, over my eye – means anyone who hurts anyone wearin' a Woolf's paw has got me to answer to – there'll be a few drawin' my mark on themselves just on seein' this," Reed explained, pointing to himself, "an' this 'un here, it means if anyone from Starfleet comes pokin' around, they're to be brought to me, so I can kill 'em myself."

He drew the same symbol again on Archer and Trip, but with only two lines through it.

"Means you take 'em prisoner and bring 'em to me, those are your orders, see? Nobody'll expect you to kill anyone just to prove somethin', they've gotta be bought to me."

Finally, turning back to the mirror, he very carefully sketched something onto the centre of his own forehead. When he turned back, Archer realised it was a stylised skull, with a cross in the right eye socket.

"Assassin for hire," Reed pointed to it, "anyone wearin' this symbol, you stay out their way. An' if anyone challenges me, I gotta fight my own battle, you stay out of it. Anyone challenges you, it's a challenge to me, so you stay out of that, too. But that don't mean you don't defend yourselves if you're attacked, you got that?"

"Yes, Mr Woolf."

"Good. Now, Charlie boy, you come here, I'm gonna mark you're a grease monkey, people'll always pay good money to have somethin' fixed proper, and it show's I got people with skills. Jack, you're gonna be a bounty hunter. S'good to have a trade."

His work finished, Reed capped the pen, and slid it into his pocket. He took out a couple of other pens, handing one to each of them.

"Hang onto these, lads," he said, gently, and Archer caught a flash of Malcolm Reed in the expression and inflection behind the words, "and remember all these symbols, but especially Woolf's paw. It's as likely to get you killed as it is to save your life, but you'll at least not be taken for slaves. You're already owned, see? Nobody'd dare steal an owned and marked slave of the Orions."

Archer and Trip both nodded, and then Mr Woolf was back on show, as he tipped them both a leer.

"Well, I don't know about you boys, but I've a helluva thirst – 'bout time we landed, innit?"


	4. Chapter 4

Archer's first glance of Outpost 66 took him by surprise. He'd expected a tiny spaceport, or an isolated little colony. As the _Chanteloup_ entered the atmosphere and broke through the cloud cover he was treated to a spectacular view of a desert city that spread for several miles, sprawling like a gigantic spider across the planet's surface. Reed caught his expression, and waved a dismissive hand across the cabin window.

"Most of that's the shanties – the place where folks live," Reed said, pointing to a cluster of buildings near to the centre, "that's where we need to be. Centre of town. There's more bars than anythin' else in '66, but I know the one we'll need to be in to get noticed."

"Where's that, then?" Archer asked, leaning down to look out through the screen.

"Here," Reed pointed, "it's called Two Thirds Down. If we get separated, you boys ask anyone to point you that way and they will, that's where we'll meet up."

"Why's it called that?" Trip asked, curiously, as Reed began to prepare for landing.

"S'a joke, innit?" Reed spoke, even as he was concentrating on the controls, "Outpost 66. Two thirds of the way to hell... Used to be owned by a human but an Orion gang killed him and put their own people in place, I don't think they get the reference, but they never bothered to change it."

Archer and Trip shared a grim look, as Reed located a landing site and set the _Chanteloup_ down on the outskirts of the city centre, in a large open space between several shanty dwellings. Reed shared a nod and a glance with them both, and then they set to work, checking and equipping everything they might need. Trip's utility belt was heavy with tools; Archer and Reed were suitably bedecked with weapons. Reed grabbed his rifle, slung it casually over his shoulder, and opened the hatch.

Archer had expected it to be hot, but the coolness of the air came as a shock to the system. The planet was obviously too far from the sun to receive much heat; it was simply a lack of water that had rendered the terrain so inhospitable. Reed led the way, walking with a lazy, long-legged stride that oozed confidence and dared anyone to challenge him. Archer and Trip trudged behind, keeping their heads down but constantly watching their surroundings. Archer could not believe the poverty and squalor that he was witnessing. Urging himself to harden his heart for the time being, has watched as Reed strolled down the main street, attracting a few glances. He immediately noticed that virtually everyone had a symbol of one form or another on their foreheads; some seemed to denote ownership, while others signified profession. Some people had a multitude of markings on their face, others very few. In any event, he warranted no more than a quick glance from anyone who cared to look – they read his symbols like an open book and then they either glanced away, disinterested, or else they disappeared on some sudden errand.

A few people gave them openly challenging looks, but none made a move against them, as Reed finally led them into a dimly-lit bar. Virtually every table was occupied, but the air was muted, conversations being kept at discreetly low levels. Soft music played from tinny speakers; there was a stage at the far end of the room, currently unoccupied, but there was a microphone and backline in place. It did not escape Archer's notice that all of the furniture looked extremely large, very heavy, and was firmly bolted down to the floor. Bar fights were no doubt common in a region like this. The majority of the patrons were humans, with a few Orions and a couple of other species Archer did not recognise. Reed had visually scanned the room immediately, and strode straight over to a table occupied three burly Orion men, situated midway between the bar and the stage.

 _"_ _O'cta!"_ Reed snapped at them, _"Tu-chen h'va, Woolf!"_

 _"_ _H'va Woolf,"_ one of the Orions rumbled, as the three of them stood up.

To Archer's surprise, the three of them then turned, and ambled out of the bar. Reed dropped down into one of the vacated chairs, and immediately swung his feet up onto the table, crossing his legs and assuming a languid pose. He flicked a hand, gesturing for the other two to sit. They did so, casting quick glances around the bar. Nobody paid them any overt heed aside from a waitress, who sashayed over to them. She was tall and slim, with greenish skin – Archer took her for an Orion, until she flicked a long tail in Reed's direction, almost caressing his face with the unusual appendage.

"What can I get you, sweetheart?" she purred.

Reed grabbed her tail and gave it a slight tug, making her yelp.

"Keep those fuckin' pheromones to yourself," he growled at her, as Archer fought to keep the surprise off his face, "three pints of Devil's Piss, be quick about it, and remember who you're dealing with."

The waitress scowled, but nodded and disappeared. Reed smirked at Archer, as he said; "Bloody Selobites. Sexy as hell, but they'll use the pheromones they excrete from a gland in their tails to knock you senseless and steal whatever they can get their hands on."

A few minutes later, their drinks arrived on a tray carried by the biggest Orion woman Archer had ever seen. Instead of the usual scanty clothing, she wore plain overalls and a massive apron. Her arms alone looked wider than Archer's torso. She had long, shaggy grey hair, and was clearly very old. However, what shocked him the most was that on her very large, very visible left bosom; she wore a stylised Woolf's Paw.

"Ma'Khet," Reed greeted her, with a trademark leer, "long time no see – thought you'd be dead by now."

"They keep trying but they keep missing," the massive Orion rumbled, with a toothy grin, "thought they'd shot you and hung you out to dry. It's been, what, six years?"

"Seven, but who's countin', sweetheart?"

Reed accepted the drink she offered him; the other two pints were then plonked unceremoniously on the table.

"You're crazy, coming back here," Ma'Khet growled, but there was something close to affection in her tone, "twice I've nearly been taken over by the Hammer Crew, but I send them packing. There's still a few hardcore members of Woolf's Pack wearing the Paw around here. No doubt there'll be a few more new 'uns before the day's out."

"Here's hopin'," Reed raised his glass in toast, and produced a handful of gold coins from a pocket, dropping them into Ma'Khet's outstretched hand, "You see any of my faithful, you send 'em my way, won't you, love?"

"Course I will," Ma'Khet waved a beefy hand at him even as she turned away; "Oh, and sorry about the waitress – she's new!"

Reed did not reply as the bulky proprietor of Two Thirds Down ambled her way back to the bar. He sipped at his beer, and let his eyes slowly scan the room, making sure not to stare at any one person for any longer than it took to read their faces. He counted at least six other groups who were expressing an interest in the sort of information that they had been sent to track down. Every so often, an emaciated street child would come running in, locate a table and impart some piece of information to the occupants. Good information was rewarded with a coin. Bad information was, at best, simply ignored. Reed allowed his pint glass to dangle languidly between his thumb and two fingers as he surveyed the cloudy brown liquid within. He could see Trip and Archer trying not to screw their noses up at the bitter taste. Internally, he smirked; they were so used to drinking refined lagers they'd never had to develop a taste for bootleg ale brewed by an Orion with the constitution of a rhino. He took another long swallow, deliberately affecting the air of a man with nothing to do but kill time.

After about forty minutes, a scrawny young girl came scrambling into the bar, cast a swift look around, met his gaze, and shot over to him.

"Message for you, Mr Woolf – you're late and bidding has already started. The decision will be made in 16 hours. I can enter your bid."

Reed took a datachip and a gold coin from his pocket.

"My opening bid is sealed and encrypted on this chip," he told the girl, "take it now – bring me the confirmation and you'll get two more coins."

The girl snatched both items, and they disappeared from view in the ragged tatters of her clothes as she took off again. Reed resumed sipping at his drink. He had just ordered his second – Trip and Archer were barely half way through their firsts – when the girl reappeared, and wordlessly handed Reed a folded up scrap of paper. He opened it, saw the symbol scrawled thereon, nodded, and dropped the promised gold coins carelessly onto the dusty floor. The girl snatched them up and was gone again. Reed tucked the paper into an internal pocket.

"My bid has been accepted, gentlemen," he smirked, raising his glass and staring deeply into its dark depths, "now all we have to do is wait here and see what happens."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: All of the songs used in this chapter are not mine, and belong to their respective artists/writers, including Chicago: The Musical "When You're Good to Mama", Florence and The Machine "Howl", and Def Leppard "Pour Some Sugar on Me".

* * *

Archer had to remind himself to keep his head down; the number of patrons in the bar waxed and waned as the hours passed, but he could see that there were a few groups who remained consistent. Reed had told them that the bidding would have been going on for several days and judging by the general lack of sobriety indicated by some of those present, they had no intention of leaving the seedy establishment until the auction closed. Like everyone else in the bar, they drank slowly and steadily, everyone watching everyone else but making a studious effort not to accidentally make eye contact. Archer had already seen four fights start that way; it seemed to provide entertainment to the rest of the patrons, bets could be placed with the waitresses, and the loser got dumped outside, whether dead or alive Archer found it hard to tell.

Out of habit, Archer spared a quick glance up as the door opened – Reed had received two more messengers since the first, though he had not yet had to up his bid. It seemed Reed had set out from the start to draw attention with an over-the-top offer that the other bidding parties were struggling to match. Archer wondered just what the hell his armoury officer had come up with that would be so appealing to a bunch of xenophobic zealots hell-bent on starting a war. He had already noted the irony of carrying out the transaction at an outpost on an alien planet and potentially selling the crucial conference information to aliens, in the hopes of sabotaging Earth's attempts at peaceful treaties with other species. The arriving messenger ducked to a different corner of the room, and Archer turned his attention back to the bitter pint of ale in front of him.

However, the sound of a guitar tuning up cut across his thoughts, and he automatically turned his gaze towards the stage. Three men had appeared and were tuning up their instruments; between them, a guitar, a keyboard and a drum kit. Archer sent a questioning glance at Reed, but the lieutenant was staring at the stage with interest. Archer met Trip's querying gaze, shrugged, and hooked his arm over the back of his chair so that he could see the stage. Several others in the bar were also watching the proceedings. From behind the curtains, a human woman emerged. The woman was tall, at least six feet, emphasised by her thick-tread boots. She wore tight fitting black jeans and a low-cut black tank top. Her dark hair was long and unkempt, and she had a Klingon disruptor in a holster on her right thigh. She was lean but muscular and not of particularly feminine appearance, though judging by the jeers from the audience most of the men present did not seem to care. She had very few markings on her face. However, Reed had been passing the time by teaching Archer and Trip some of the code. In the centre of her forehead, she had a large, blank circle. This meant that she was a free and independent contractor for hire. Above her right eye was an assassin symbol similar to Reed's, above her left eye was a stylised drawing of a hand, denoting her as a smuggler, indicating the sorts of work she preferred.

The woman approached the microphone and cast a predatory grin around the bar. There were a few whistles, but she waved them off, shaking her head.

"You ask all the little chickies in my pen," she purred into the microphone, in a husky, sultry voice; "and they'll tell you I'm the biggest mother... hen... I love them all, and all of them love me... Because the system works, the system called reciprocity..."

She strung out the last word, as the piano chimed in, picking up the tune, and the singer launched into the song with sultry gusto.

"Got a little motto, always sees me through – when you're good to Mama, Mama's good to you!" the singer winked, and began to sway her hips in a rhythmic, suggestive manner, "There's a lot of favours, I'm prepared to do – you do one for Mama, she'll do one for you!"

Archer risked a quick look around the bar; the singer was obviously a welcome and well-known distraction, though messengers continued to come and go even as the song continued. The singer was obviously warming to her act, as she raised her hands and gyrated slowly to the upbeat tune.

"They say that life is tit for tat, and that's the way I live... so I deserve a lot of tat, for what I've got to give!" the singer made a suggestive gesture, raising a hoot from the audience, "Don't you know that this hand, washes that one too? When you're good to Mama, Mama's good to you!"

Archer could see Trip smiling slightly, clearly enjoying the performance. Reed was nursing his pint, feet up on the table, watching the singer with a hooded, amused expression. There seemed to be no harm in blatantly appreciating the show, so Archer glanced back at the stage. The singer seemed to catch Trip's gaze and grinned at him, reaching out her arm and crooking her finger invitingly.

"If you want my gravy, pepper my ragu – spice it up for Mama, she'll get hot for you," the singer growled into the microphone, swaying her hips, "When they pass that basket folks contribute to, if you put in for Mama... she'll put out for you!"

A roar of appreciation swept around the bar as the singer made an overtly obscene gesture, and Archer felt his own face flush with amusement as Trip squirmed a little in his chair, still grinning, as the singer broke eye contact and threw her head back with a throaty laugh, before continuing.

"The folks atop the ladder are the ones the word adores," she purred, "so boost me up my ladder, kid, and I'll boost you up yours. Let's all stroke together, like the Princeton Crew – when you're strokin' Mama, Mama's strokin' you."

"Stroke this, bitch!" yelled a man from the audience; the singer made a rude hand gesture but otherwise ignored him.

"So what's the one conclusion I can bring this number to? When you're good to Mama... Mama's good to you!"

The singer finished with a husky growl, spreading her hands invitingly. The assembled audience clapped and whistled, banging their drinking glasses on the table appreciatively. The singer laughed, shaking her head, and cast a knowing look over the crowded bar. She put her hand over the microphone, and said something to the guitarist. He nodded, played a couple of cords, and then nodded again.

"Get on with it!" shouted a voice from somewhere near the back of the room; another, much more drunken voice slurred; "Get yer kit off!" to a smattering of laughter around the bar.

The drummer tapped out a quick rhythm before the keyboard took up a tune, and guitarist joined in softly. Archer noted a darker tone to the music and the entire bar went oddly quiet as the singer's expression shifted from playfully flirtatious to dark and powerful.

"If you could only see the beast you've made of me; I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free... Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart, drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart... My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in; you are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl... My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in; you are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to, howl, howl..." she leaned back slightly, spreading her arms and drawing out the word; "Howl, howl! Now there's no holding back, I'm making to attack; my blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out. The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound, I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground... like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins, I want to find you tear out all your tenderness!"

Archer glanced across at Reed, surprised to see he was staring straight at the singer, smirking, his half-empty pint glass held up in his fingers as he slowly swirled the amber liquid in time to the music. He appeared to already know the song, nodding his head almost imperceptibly to the beat as the song continued in the background.

"Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers, starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters... Hunters, hunters, hunters..."

A messenger boy ran up to their table, and Reed glared at him, showing his displeasure in being interrupted. The boy gestured to him and Reed leaned down, listening to the hastily whispered message. He nodded, gave the boy a coin, and turned back towards the stage; he had missed part of the song, which was nearly finished. The singer looked straight at him, and he smirked, cocking his head slightly to one side, leering.

"Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers; starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters... A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night, may still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright!" the singer flung her hands out in an approximation of claws, almost shouting the last line, then drawing a deep breath, slowing the tempo slightly; "If you could only see the beast you've made of me; I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free... The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound... I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow'd ground..."

She trailed off in a low voice, stretching the last word out in a soft, tuneful howl. The audience applauded half-heartedly, clearly less impressed with this song than the last.

"Alright, boys," the singer growled into the microphone, "you wanna step things up a bit?"

She snatched the microphone out of the stand, and raised her voice; "Step inside, walk this way – you and me babe, hey hey!"

The tall woman prowled the length of the stage with a long-legged stride, her eyes flashing in the half-light of the bar, as she strutted backwards and forwards; "Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on;  
Livin' like a lover with a radar phone. Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp, demolition woman, can I be your man? Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' a flash a little light, television lover, baby, go all night - Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet - Little miss innocent sugar me, yeah!"

Archer tuned out for a moment, turning away from the stage as Ma'Khet strode over to them, bearing a tray of four drinks. She passed one to Reed as he deposited his empty glass on the tray, and she took a pint for herself, dropping heavily into a chair beside the lieutenant. Archer pretended to be watching the singer strutting about on the stage, but kept his hearing focused on the conversation behind him. Trip, enraptured by the female singer, did not appear to have noticed they had been joined by the Orion barkeep.

"Been a long time since I had to dance for a livin'," Ma'Khet gave a grunt of a laugh, "you remember Cora, don'tcha, Kyle?"

"A 'course I do, Ma," Reed nodded, "she's alright, ain't she?"

"Too skinny an' no style," Ma'Khet snorted, but there was affection in her tone, "she sings okay though. The humans seem to like her, anyway. They don't know much better; an Orion girl'd run rings 'round a crowd like this."

"Listen!" The singer paused in her pacing, holding up one hand, the other still clutching the microphone; still singing; "red light, yellow light, green-a-light, go! Crazy little woman in a one man show, mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love, sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up! You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little, tease a little more! Easy operator come a knockin' on my door, sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet, little miss innocent sugar me, yeah, yeah!"

The waiters and waitresses flitted around the crowded bar, serving drinks, collecting tips and slapping away hands that roamed too close to goods that hadn't been paid for; the men and women who frequented the bar were becoming rougher, rowdier and drunker as the evening wore on. Ma'Khet leaned across the table and muttered something in Reed's ear. He listened carefully, nodded slowly, and reached into a pocket inside his jacket. He produced a small hessian bag, which he handed to her, and Archer watched out of the corner of his eye and she dropped it into her cleavage with a satisfied grin. She got up to head back to the bar and Archer smirked as Reed – Kyle Woolf – gave the huge Orion an affectionate slap on the backside.

"Cheeky bastard!" she harrumphed, but she was grinning.

The singer finished her song with a particularly lewd gesture, laughing at the resulting wolf-whistles and cat-calls, as much from the female customers as the men. She launched into another number; a song so fast and raunchy that Archer had a hard time identifying the lyrics, but the gestures that the singer, Cora, was making more than explained exactly what the song was about. He turned away briefly to sip at his beer – he couldn't tell if he was getting used to the taste or whether it was the effect of the amount that he was consuming but he seemed to be getting through the drinks at a fair rate, and wondered if he should be making more of an effort to stay sober, but he figured that being in this bar without a drink was tantamount to inviting a fight. Eventually, the female singer bowed her way off the stage, collected her tips from the waitress, and disappeared around the back. Trip and Archer turned back to the table as the man at the keyboard continued to play some background music. The drummer went straight for the bar and the guitarist made a beeline for one of the waitresses. Reed sighed and glanced at his watch.

"Fuckin' 'ell," he grimaced, scrubbing a hand across his eyes, "I'm knackered..."

"How long have we got to sit here?" Archer asked, in a low voice, leaning forward.

"Not long now, mate," Reed said, evasively, "just waitin' on someone... ah, here we go, lads. About bloody time..."


	6. Chapter 6

Archer glanced up as a figure approached the table and he managed to avoid doing a double take when he realised that it was the singer; she was now sporting a long, tattered brown coat that reached down to her knees; she was wearing a wide-brimmed, brown-coloured Stetson-style hat, and carried a large rifle slug over her shoulder. Around her waist she wore a belt with a number of equipment pockets, and she was smoking a small, thin, electronic cigarette.

"Well, well, well," murmured the woman, in a low voice, "Kyle fuckin' Woolf, as I live and breathe."

"Cora," Reed smirked at her, "figured you'd show up. Good show tonight. Did ya miss me?"

"Only 'cos you nicked my fuckin' rifle," the woman, Cora, replied, tossing her ragged hair over her shoulder, but she grinned as she said it, "you gonna buy me a drink, or what?"

She dropped heavily into the vacant chair, as Archer and Trip exchanged a surprised look. Her accent was strange, remarkably similar to Reed's but with a different intonation and odd inflections; Archer assumed that she was British but from a different area of the country. It never ceased to amaze him how such a small island managed to support so many different regional accents. For her part, she spared Archer and Trip a fleeting glance, and then focussed back on Reed, her grey-green eyes bright in the low light. Reed raised one hand casually and then dropped it again; four more pints quickly appeared on the table. They drank in silence for a moment, as Archer surreptitiously watched Reed and the newcomer, who appeared to be engaged in a silent battle of wills. Eventually, the woman set her glass down on the table and toyed with it.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Woolf," she told him, in a low voice, "the stakes are fuckin' high on this one. There's a lot of people want what's on that PADD."

"None more so than me. They ain't gonna get it," was all Reed said.

He began tapping the table top in a rhythmic manner, casting his eyes around the bar as if he was simply killing time. The woman, Cora, watched his fingers closely for a moment, and Archer realised that Reed had just drummed out a coded message in a cipher he did not recognise. Cora clearly did, as her eyes widened slightly, and she cast an infinitesimally quick but significant look at Archer.

"Okay," the affected casual air was back as Cora picked up her pint, "but I'm a free agent now, so if you want me, you gotta buy me in. You know I'll be an asset."

"I was hoping you'd be in," Reed grinned, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a handful of coins, "here. Twenty now, consider it a deposit."

Cora reached out and picked up the coins, never taking her eyes off Reed.

"Done," she announced, and reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a mirror and a pen. She quickly drew a hasty Woolf's Paw within the circle on her head, showing who she had been hired by and that she was now subject to a contract.

"Whatever information you can gather," Reed told her, his expression dark, "meet us at the _Chanteloup_ in four hours. We'll have another couple of drinks and then pick up the biddin' again in the mornin', lads... give the lady time to do her stuff..."

He nodded to her as she got to her feet; Cora inclined her head once and, with a flick of her coat, she was gone.

* * *

Trip and Archer were both glad to finally leave the Two Thirds Down. The air outside was fresh and cold in comparison to the muggy air within, and things had become distinctly rowdy after a group of Orions had challenged some Klingons to a drinking contest. Archer had soon realised the sense in having the furniture bolted down to the floor. Feeling distinctly foggy after drinking so much, Archer wondered how the hell Reed was still standing, given that he'd had twice as much to drink.

"Steady lads," Reed warned them, "here, take one of these each – sober up a bit."

Archer and Trip took the proffered pills, noting that Reed took one too. It was not as effective as a hypospray, but Archer recognised the taste of a metabolic enhancer. His heart rate began to speed up; it was an unpleasant sensation but it was a side effect of the medication flushing the alcohol out of his system at a substantially increased rate. By the time they got back to the _Chanteloup_ they were all completely alert once more. Reed held up his hand as they approached the shuttle, frowning at the hatch. He then smiled, shrugged, and opened it. Stepping inside, Archer was shocked to find that the woman from the bar, Cora, was sitting there, arms spread across the back of the sofa, legs crossed, arrogantly slouching in the chair and acting as if she owned the place. A tall, well-muscled man was lounging in the pilot's chair; he was heavily tattooed and glared at them openly. Like Cora, his face bore the Woolf's Paw mark, along with signs designating him as a mercenary, an arms dealer and a smuggler.

"Close the fuckin' door, would ya?" Cora growled, "Gets too soddin' cold on this godforsaken rock."

Trip obeyed, closing the hatch, and sealing it. There was a long moment of silence, as Reed and Cora surveyed each other appraisingly.

"You changed the security password," Cora said, at last, gesturing towards the hatch.

"You still managed to crack it." Reed replied, quietly.

"I had a good teacher."

Cora shook her head, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and dropping her face into her hands.

"Good God in heaven, Malcolm," she said, suddenly, in a precise and clear British accent, tinted only slightly by her unfamiliar accent, "What on Earth are you doing here? When Harris sent word he was sending someone to recover the Vulcan data, he never said... I never thought... Are you crazy? If Hammerhead catches you, he'll kill you!"

Archer nearly fell over to hear the change in her voice, especially as she referred to Reed by his given name. Reed sighed and shook his head.

"Sirs – I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Kate Brogan, Section 31. I don't know your friend, Brogan."

"Ensign Julian D'Arcy," Brogan – "Cora" – waved her hand towards the other man, "Also Section 31, and a mean drummer to boot."

D'Arcy nodded to them, politely.

"If you two are already here, why would Harris want me to recover the Vulcan data?" Reed frowned.

It was a relief for Archer to hear Reed speak in his normal voice, a spark of familiarity in this violent and hostile place.

"Beats me," Brogan shrugged, leaning back on the sofa, "but I figure you're a bigger player on this table than me or D'Arcy. Besides, Harris knows damn well about the history between you and Hammerhead and he's bound to want to play on that. In any case, Hammerhead knows me as a two-bit mercenary and a part-time assassin who sings in bars to earn a bit on the side. What the hell would I suddenly want with Starfleet intel? I'm tellin' you, Harris is playin' us on this one."

"Don't I know it," Reed sighed, "Lieutenant Brogan, Ensign D'Arcy – this is Captain Jonathan Archer and Commander Charles Tucker, of the _Enterprise_."

"Pleased to meet you," Archer said, politely, as Cora – Brogan – stood up and obligingly shook their hands. Her grip was firm and sure, and she had a quick, lopsided smile that held genuine warmth. She bore no trace of the usual formality Archer expected from Starfleet officers. D'Arcy, on the other hand, immediately straightened up and stood to attention, though Archer waved to him to relax.

"Likewise," Brogan countered, "don't let the Section 31 stuff put you off, sir. I've been wanting out ever since Lieutenant Reed left, but Commander Harris keeps telling me there are no postings available."

D'Arcy gave a small snort but did not speak; it was obviously a sore subject for the two of them and Archer could not blame them – he had not even spent a day in Outpost '66 and he was already craving a swift return to the civility of the _Enterprise_ , let alone the comforts of Earth.

"Help us recover that data, Lieutenant, Ensign, and I'll give you both a berth on _Enterprise_ ," Archer promised them, relieved to be able to drop the pretences for a while, "what can you tell us?"

"Ever since I got word of the loss of the data, I've been monitoring my usual suspects," Brogan reported, as they all took seats around the cockpit, "but to be honest, there's only one gang big enough to have pulled off something like this."

"Hammerhead," Reed said, quietly.

"Hammerhead," Brogan confirmed, as she glanced at each of them in turn, "I've done some digging and it's definitely him. He doesn't give two shits one way or the other about human relations with aliens, he's just seeing the profit margins soaring if war was declared."

"Who is this Hammerhead?" Archer asked.

"It's his nickname," Reed said, sparing the captain a quick glance, "his real name is Jason Atkinson, but he's an arms dealer. He'll be deliberately trying to start a war between any species and then touting himself as a neutral so he can peddle arms to both sides. He knows if he sells Starfleet secrets to Orions there'll be hell to pay over the lack of security. The Orions don't want an alliance that might be powerful enough to put a dent in their control of their trading sectors so they'll jump at the chance – Hammerhead and his xenophobes get both their war and the profits."

"You've had previous dealings, I take it?" Trip queried, casting Reed a doubtful look.

"You could say that," Reed conceded, "the last time I was here, I – that is, Mr Woolf – had a lot to do with Starfleet somehow managing to arrest and incarcerate Hammerhead's only son, for offences too numerous to list. Woolf was supposed to be escorting Jamie Atkinson safely to a rendezvous, but when Starfleet came after them Woolf escaped. Jamie couldn't due to certain well-timed engine difficulties and was apprehended. Hammerhead blamed Woolf for Jamie's life imprisonment in a penal colony. He lost his son, a ship, a container load of extremely valuable weapons, a lot of money and his most important customer all in one go."

"We stopped him once," Brogan said, confidently, "We can do it again... S'before your time, Julian."

"I've heard about it," the big, tattooed man shrugged, his voice surprisingly soft for his size; "seen the reports."

"We need to recover that data," Archer said, recalling his orders with a grimace, "and 'at all costs', I've been told."

"Agreed," Reed nodded, "our priority has to be recovering that PADD. We can't risk it falling into the wrong hands."

"Yeah, about that," Brogan frowned, "word has it that Hammerhead's rejecting all bids over and above yours. Apparently he wants what you're offering and nobody can beat it. What the hell did you offer him, anyway?"

"The one thing he really wants more than all the profits he could reap from a war," Reed smiled, coldly; "...Me."


	7. Chapter 7

The other four occupants of the _Chanteloup_ were less than impressed with this piece of information.

"What?" Trip exploded, turning on Reed, "What the hell were you thinking? If what you've just said is true, he's gonna kill you on sight!"

"I absolutely do not authorise this, Lieutenant," Archer snapped, "this is too far. I'm not going to let you sacrifice yourself. We'll find another way to recover the data."

"You crazy bastard, I should have shot you myself when I had the chance!" Brogan threw her hands up in the air in disgust.

Only D'Arcy said nothing, his expression set and stoic.

"Steady now, lads, and lass," Reed was smirking Woolf's trademark smirk, slipping back into character without skipping a beat; "this old wolf still knows a few tricks, don't he? I don't plan on dyin' any time soon, and certainly not in this shithole."

Archer opened his mouth as if to protest, but then Lt. Reed was back, his tone soft and his expression apologetically downcast.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "I'm acting under direct orders from Admiral Sloan and Commander Harris. I honestly thought you knew."

"They ordered you to kill yourself?" Archer could scarcely believe it.

"Essentially, yes," Reed snorted a humourless laugh, "Commander Harris made it clear in my instructions that he thought it highly unlikely that I would survive this mission. I thoroughly intend to disappoint him in that respect, sir."

"I should hope so," Trip growled, "son of a bitch!"

"Easy Trip," Archer held up a warning hand, still watching Reed carefully, "do you have a plan, Malcolm?"

Reed let out a short, sharp laugh and Archer saw his expression shift back to his cover persona; "That's Mr. Woolf to you, Jack, and don't you dare forget it. I've always got a plan – it just ain't a very good one."

"Then I can't fuckin' wait to hear this," Brogan slumped back on the sofa, scowling, her 'Cora' identity back in full play, "'cause the last time you had a plan, I got shot in the fuckin' leg and it still hurts when it soddin' rains."

"Good job it only rains twice a year here then, innit?" Reed countered.

Archer was silently impressed at how quickly and smoothly the two officers were able to slip between being themselves and being their cover personas – he realised that they probably knew each other better as Mr. Woolf and Cora than by their true names, and he had to wonder again at the nature of covert operations as he quickly reminded himself that he was Jack Bowman, a slaver's mercenary and Kyle Woolf's personal property. D'Arcy – whose cover name Archer realised he did not yet know, had sat back down and was toying with a sharp knife he kept in a sheath strapped to his left wrist.

Reed briefly outlined his plan, and gave them each their assignments. Trip was vociferous in his objections, but quieted by Archer; "Well, do you have a better plan?"

Trip was unhappily forced to concede that he did not.

"So where's the exchange supposed to take place?" D'Arcy asked, "We could do with trying to get some of our friendlier contacts into the area as back-up..."

"Two Thirds Down," Reed spread his hands slightly, "The bid I've submitted is sealed and I'm supposed to be unaware of the contents. I'm to believe my Orion contacts have betrayed me; I was sent under the assumption I was offerin' a ship loaded with weapons, power cores, dilithium, latinum and other precious raw materials. The bid makes it clear I've no idea that I'm actually what's on offer, my Orion contacts having realised I'm more valuable to Hammerhead than anything else. He gets me along with the rest to sweeten the deal. Hammerhead will meet us at the bar, and hand the Starfleet info over to Jack and Charlie, who'll abandon me in a heartbeat, take it and the _Chanteloup_ and head back to the Orions. Hammerhead's a thug but he's not stupid; he'll be expectin' a trap, but this offer is too good for him to turn down, especially as I'm supposed to be blissfully unaware of my impending betrayal."

"It might work," Brogan shrugged, "what do you want me to do? The messengers will have already sent word to Hammerhead that you've hired me and that I'm wearin' your mark. Chopper here is in my employ so everyone knows he's workin' for you an' all. "

"Chopper?" Archer queried.

"Angelo 'Chopper' Harding, at your service," D'Arcy grinned, flicking the knife expertly and slotting it back into its sheath, "Body guarding services and smuggling a speciality. Drummin' in the band's just a hobby."

"We're gonna have to fight our way out of that place," Reed's eyes hardened slightly, "that's where it's gonna get messy. Charlie, your job will be to get the info straight back to _Chanteloup_ and get her ready to take off. Jack, I'd be grateful if you'd double back and watch the exit; we'll be beatin' a hasty retreat and you'll need to slow down anyone tryin' to stop us. Cora, sweetheart, it's gonna be just like old times – you and Chopper gotta have my back."

"That's what I was afraid you were gonna say," Brogan sighed, "alright, Woolf, I'm in. Gotta die some time. Might as well be in a shitty bar over some argument that ain't mine. Come on, Chopper, we'll go make the arrangements..."

Without a further word, Brogan opened the hatch and left. Archer watched the two of them go, and then turned back to Reed. The armoury officer looked exhausted but resolute.

"I don't like it," Trip spoke up, his tone still dubious, "there's a lot can go wrong. Too much."

"I agree with you, Charlie," Reed spared him a sideways glance and a quick smile, "but that's how things go around here. You get used to it. Now, we ain't got long until the biddin' closes; we all need to get some sleep. Make yourselves cosy, mates. Not long until the show starts..."

* * *

Several hours later, Archer found himself being gently awoken by Trip.

"C'mon," the engineer said, as Archer quickly scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, "it's time to go..."

Archer nodded silently, grabbing his jacket, before checking and holstering his weapon. He had a feeling he was going to need it. Reed was in the forward compartment; he appeared to be wearing black combat armour over his usual tee-shirt. He slipped his jacket on over the top and zipped it up, hiding the armour. Observing his armoury officer for the moment, Archer came to the sudden realisation that Reed did not fully expect to survive this mission. He briefly considered calling a halt to the whole operation, but he knew it was an order that Reed could not and would not obey. The lieutenant's sense of duty to Starfleet would win out. Archer double checked his holstered weapon, a modified particle beam hand gun, and saw Trip doing the same.

"Remember, Charlie, it's your job to get the information back to the _Chanteloup_ as fast as you can," Reed broke the tense silence, "get back here and get her ready to fly – you leave on my order, whether we're all on board or not, got it?"

Trip nodded, sullenly, clearly unhappy with the arrangements, casting a glance at Archer. The captain inclined his head, slightly.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Archer asked, quietly.

"I have to," was the simple, stoic reply.

A final check of their weapons and the three of them departed the _Chanteloup_. Archer glanced around, wondering where Brogan and D'Arcy had got to, figuring that they were probably waiting for them in Two Thirds Down. The three officers strode slowly but confidently into the city of Outpost 66, where a small boy quickly ran up to Reed.

"Mr Hammerhead sent word – your bid was the winner, Mr Woolf," the boy said, quickly, his eyes darting around rapidly as he spoke, "you're to go to him at Two Thirds. He says you gotta go alone."

"No chance," Reed smirked, "I don't go anywhere without my boys. Tell Hammerhead I'm on my way, kid. He'd better have what I want."

The boy nodded and was gone, off like a shot through the crowded streets. Reed walked on at a slower pace, strolling along with Woolf's trademark swagger, portraying a bravado and confidence he did not truly feel. Behind him, Archer and Trip kept their heads down, following him, but taking everything in. Here and there, Archer caught sight of the odd person making eye-contact with Reed, giving him slight nods, the Woolf's Paw symbol clearly marked somewhere on their faces. Clearly Reed – or Kyle Woolf – had a few allies left in Outpost 66, so "Cora" and "Chopper" had been working hard to rally them. Eventually, yet all too soon, they reached the seedy bar. Reed paused outside the door; Archer stepped forward and pushed it open, as if checking for a trap. He nodded once to Reed, and then held the door open to allow his 'boss' to step inside.

The place smelled worse than Archer remembered from the previous day; several dozen patrons occupied the nearby tables; some wore hoods or kept their faces down, ignoring everything around them. A few others looked on with unbridled curiosity; no doubt word of Woolf's successful bid had spread and there were those interested to see how the exchange went down. The stage stood empty save for D'Acry's drum kit; music was being played at a muted volume through the tinny speakers around the room. Glancing around quickly, Archer saw Brogan lounging against the bar, sipping at a beer and conversing in a low voice with the burly Orion barkeep, Ma'Khet. D'Arcy was further away, at a table, playing a card game with three other sullen-looking men.

Reed paid no apparent heed to Brogan, D'Arcy or the other patrons; he strode over to a table in the far corner of the bar. _Furthest from the door,_ Archer thought, grimly, _damn. Further to run..._

He could feel multiple eyes on their small group as he and Trip followed Reed to the table where a large, brawny man sat waiting, a predatory grin on his face. It was hard to judge his height while he was sitting but he looked to be a giant of a figure; completely bald, heavily tattooed, and sporting a hammerhead shark tattoo inked onto the top of his head. His age was hard to guess as his face was a patchwork of scars; the cold grin he favoured them with revealed several golden teeth. He flexed his muscular arms and leaned back in his chair.

"Woolf," he growled in a deep, gravelly voice, "long time no see."

"Hammerhead," Reed remained standing, his hand resting gently on the butt of his gun, "I believe you have some information for me."

"Payment first, up front," Hammerhead tapped the table meaningfully. Behind him, at least four other hard-looking men shifted restlessly, eyeing Trip and Archer. Each of the four wore distinctive shark tattoos on their shaven heads; Archer found himself wondering how many of his gang members the thug had brought with him to spring the 'trap' Reed was fully expecting. For his part, Reed reached into his pocket and pulled out a data chip. He tossed it onto the table. Hammerhead slowly leaned forward and picked it up, never taking his eyes off Reed.

"Details, location and access codes for an old boomer freighter stuffed to the gunnels with the items listed in my bid inventory," Reed said, confidently, "you can collect at your convenience. Take all the time you need to verify it."

Hammerhead passed the chip to one of his subordinates, who took it, plugged it into a data pad and then turned away, muttering into a hand-held communicator. Reed and Hammerhead kept up their staring match, never breaking eye contact, until the man finally turned back to them.

"It checks out, boss," he grunted, "we got a crew on their way to collect – everything looks legit on the scanners."

"I've kept up my end," Reed said, calmly, "now give me the Starfleet intel. My employers are very keen to have it."

"I don't doubt it," Hammerhead smirked, holding out his hand, as one of his heavies passed over a distinctive Vulcan data PADD, "I acquired it at no small expense; the bid your employers offered was more than reasonable compensation. It's all yours."

He carelessly flung the PADD onto the table; at Reed's nod, Trip came forward, picked up the PADD, and checked it.

"It's good," he said, quickly.

"'Course it is," Reed smirked, "Mr Hammerhead knows better than to double-cross the Orion Syndicate. Jack, Charlie, go deliver the good news to our employers. I think me and Mr Hammerhead should have a drink to toast our little deal."

Hammerhead smiled a cold, mirthless smile and inclined his head slightly. Reluctantly, Archer gestured to Trip and the two of them left the bar together quickly. Archer did not miss the very slight nod that Brogan cast him from the bar as they left. He felt only slightly reassured by the fact at least she and D'Arcy were there to have Reed's back.

For his part, Reed watched the two men leave and breathed a silent sigh of relief that they were at least allowed to leave the bar unmolested. He hoped beyond all hope they could make it back to the _Chanteloup_. He signalled to a waitress, and two beers were brought over. He still made no move to sit down, but raised his pint slightly. Still smiling his icy smile, Hammerhead echoed the gesture in a silent toast, and they both drank.

"Your employers must have really wanted that information," Hammerhead commented, in a slightly mocking tone, "they paid a very high price for it."

"They said as much to me," Reed shrugged, casually, taking another mouthful of beer.

He was vaguely aware of a presence behind him; he counted at least two men had moved to stand either side of him. He feigned nonchalance as he glanced over one shoulder.

"Call off your thugs, Hammerhead," he said, quietly, "the deal's done."

"Not quite," Hammerhead's grin grew larger and more genuine, "you see, your employers really wanted that intel. So much so, they offered me something I couldn't refuse."

"You've got your pay. We're done here," Reed turned away, as if to leave.

Two men blocked his way; they were armed but had not drawn their weapons.

"You don't get it, do you, Woolf?" Hammerhead leered, "You've been sold out, boy. You were part of the deal. I own you. You're mine. And I'm going to make you suffer for a very, very long time before I allow you to die."

He rose slowly as he spoke; Reed paused just long enough to take a quick headcount. At least two thugs behind him; four more in front, Hammerhead himself and probably around six or seven more throughout the bar as several figures stood up from their tables and turned to face the corner. Hammerhead, at least, would have given orders that Woolf be taken alive; he had that in his favour at least.

He moved like lighting, without word or conscious thought. He threw the remains of his pint into the face of his first assailant, temporarily blinding and disorienting him. One of the men behind him fell to a gut punch and a swift uppercut to the jaw; the other, still half-blinded by the beer, swung a meaty fist that caught Reed across the jaw, but he rolled with the punch and came back with a combination of three quick blows that dropped his opponent to the floor. He drew his weapon at the same time as virtually everyone else in the bar and all hell erupted. He felt a disruptor blast hit him in the chest; stun setting, but thankfully his armour absorbed most of the energy discharge. As it was it sent him staggering backwards and he might have fallen had Brogan not been there, grabbing his shoulder even as she returned fire. One of Hammerhead's thugs hit the floor, even as the others were taking cover to return fire. Hammerhead was roaring over the noise.

"Get him! I want that bastard alive! If you kill him I'll gut you myself – get him!"

Reed reached into his pocket, pulling the tab on a stun grenade; he flung it carelessly towards the corner even as he, D'Arcy and Brogan ran for the door. Ma'Khet was there, covering their exit. The stun grenade detonated with a blinding light, knocking out half of the population in the bar, even as Brogan, D'Arcy and Reed made it through the door.

"Get running, Woolf," Ma'Khet growled at them, "let me clean up this mess..."

"I owe you one, Ma!" Reed shouted back, as he and his two companions took to their heels.


	8. Chapter 8

Hammerhead had clearly prepared for this eventuality; they had to fight their way through several encounters with his thugs; tough men and women who were battle-scarred and well versed in conflict, working in twos or threes to patrol the streets. Battered and winded, Reed, Brogan and D'Arcy nonetheless fought their way to the outskirts, until they found themselves flanked and surrounded by eight gang members, all with hammerhead shark tattoos, all wielding heavy-looking stun weapons.

"Shit," Reed said, matter-of-factly, holding up his own disruptor, scanning the crowd, "any suggestions?"

"Surrender," a brutish-looking woman grinned back at him, "Mr Hammerhead's waiting for you."

"A very good reason not to fuckin' surrender," Brogan replied, armed as she was with stun pistols in each hand, each set to their highest stun setting.

"He wants Woolf alive," rumbled one of the men, "never said nothin' about the bird and the other bloke..."

Reed was about to try to create a distraction when one came along for him; the loud, waspish hum of a disruptor split the air and one of the men shouted in shock, crumpling to the floor. Another followed in quick succession, as the others turned in bewilderment, looking for the source of the attack. Reed took this opportunity to take down two more; Brogan dispatched another before the remaining three mustered their sense and returned fire. Reed felt another blast hit his back; again dissipated by his armour, but he knew the energy absorption unit was close to failing. Brogan must have been similarly armoured as she grunted in surprise when a blast hit her shoulder, but she kept running.

"Come on!" Archer was there, weapon in hand, taking cover behind a building, "We need to get out of here!"

Reed picked up as much speed as he could, sprinting, even as D'Arcy turned to lay down some covering fire. Reed roughly grabbed Archer and shoved the captain in front of him, shielding him from the disruptor fire that followed them; he was armoured and the captain was not. Another shot found its mark; this time he felt the impact and stumbled, dazed, as the absorption unit emitted a shrill whistle, warning that the capacitor was full and rendering his armour useless. Archer caught his arm and dragged him onwards; there, waiting, with the engines fully fired up, was the welcome sight of the _Chanteloup_. They staggered up the ramp; Trip was taking off even before Archer was able to fully close the hatch.

"Trip, get us out of here!" Archer shouted, somewhat unnecessarily.

The engineer did not need telling twice; however, their escape was never going to be that easy.

"We've got company!"

Reed scrambled over to the cockpit; sure enough, three other ships were taking to the air.

"Let me take the helm," Reed said, breathlessly, throwing off his jacket and shrugging out of the now useless armour; "take the co-pilot and keep an eye on those ships; Captain, I suggest you, D'Arcy and Brogan hang on tight, this is going to get rough!"

Reed and Trip swiftly switched stations, and Reed immediately accelerated, heading for the upper atmosphere. However, their pursuers immediately opened fire; a lucky shot glanced one of _Chanteloup_ 's engines, sending a heavy jolt through the ship. Archer and Brogan took their seats and secured themselves as best they could, even while Reed was fighting the controls. D'Arcy remained standing, hanging onto an overhead support strut for all he was worth.

"Another hit like that and we won't clear the atmosphere!" Reed said, even as he returned fire on the pursuing ships, "we need to even these odds..."

"Venting drive plasma from the damaged starboard engine should confuse their sensors," Trip called out, tapping a few keys, "this should throw them off for a second or two..."

Reed diverted their course into the cloud cover even as Trip initiated the venting of plasma; the three pursuers dropped back slightly but did not give up. Reed turned the weapons to target the drive plasma even as Trip cut off the vent. A single shot was enough to ignite the unstable plasma; a broiling cloud of flame exploded behind them, sending the _Chanteloup_ bucking and shuddering wildly in the shockwave, as Reed struggled to stabilise their uneven flight.

"One of the ships is gone," Trip reported, grimly, "Another looks damaged; they've given up. We've still got the third..."

As if on cue, another blast rocked their craft, almost jarring them from their seats. Reed swore and returned fire; however another impact slammed into them; the lights in the cockpit flickered monetarily and then died.

"Direct hit to the starboard engine – main power is down!" Trip cried out, "aft stabilisers have failed – the engine's completely dead!"

"Weapons are down," Reed sounded much calmer than the engineer, though his tone was grim, "I've got limited navigational control; we're going down. I can try to control the descent but everyone needs to hang on tight!"

Archer gritted his teeth, feeling the craft buck and shudder, the pitch and yaw almost nauseating as Reed fought with the failing systems to make some sort of controlled landing. A quick glance at the cockpit window told Archer everything he already knew; they were going down too hard and too fast. He closed his eyes briefly.

"Brace for impact!" Reed shouted.

There was no amount of bracing that could prepare anyone for the blow of a small cargo ship hitting a planet's surface at terminal velocity. Archer felt himself thrown from his seat; he impacted with the solid flooring and everything went dark.


	9. Chapter 9

The biggest surprise to Archer was to discover that he was still alive as he regained consciousness. His whole body protested with pain as he tried to move; he felt bruised all over but lucky to be alive. With a groan, he pushed himself up off the deck, feeling dust and debris shift and fall off his back as he did so. He had landed face-down on the decking; debris and crash damage was strewn everywhere and the air was thick with acrid smoke from the small fires that burned in a number of systems. Pale daylight streamed through the smashed cockpit and a sizeable hole in the bulkhead; the _Chanteloup_ was in no condition to take off again, even with all of Trip's skill and expertise.

The thought of the engineer reminded Archer that he should not be alone in the ship. He forced himself to his knees, peering through the smoke and the half-light; "Hello?"

His voice sounded thin and dry even to his own ears; he coughed, rubbing his eyes, trying to clear away the persistent headache and fatigue that was washing over him.

"Hello?" he tried again, stronger this time, "Trip? Malcom? Brogan... D'Arcy?"

"Ow..." a low groan to his left caught his attention; a fallen bulkhead shifted slightly, and then clattered to one side as Brogan shoved it aside and emerged from beneath it. She was as bruised and filthy as Archer; she squinted at him through the smoky air; "Well, bugger me. We made it."

"Fuckin' 'ell, that hurt," groaned D'Arcy, sitting up slowly, "shit..."

"What is it, Julian?" Brogan asked, crawling over to him on her hands and knees, "you hurt, mate?"

"Just a few bruises, boss," the ensign shook his head, with a grimace; "I've had hangovers worse than this."

"Tell me about it," Brogan grinned.

Slowly, she pushed herself to her hands and knees, even as Archer was climbing to his feet. He, Brogan and D'Arcy had been towards the back of the cockpit; Archer knew he needed to check on the others at the front. He came to Trip first; a gentle shake of the engineer's shoulder roused him, and the other man groaned, making a slow and painful return to consciousness. The restraints fitted to his chair had saved him from the worst of the impact but Archer could see blood around the engineer's mouth and a dazed look in his eyes that spoke of at least a mild concussion.

"You okay, Trip?" he asked, softly.

"Yeah..." the reply was a little vague, but at least he was coherent; "you?"

"I'll live," Archer assured him with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

A groan from the pilot's seat caught his attention; turning away from Trip for a moment, Archer climbed over debris to get to the bulky chair. Reed's restraints had failed; he was slumped over the controls, face down, his right arm hanging limply by his side. Archer could tell immediately from the odd angle that the shoulder was dislocated. Gritting his teeth, and deciding it would be merciful to re-set it while the armoury officer was unconscious, Archer ran his hands over the misshapen joint, locating the point to apply pressure. Gently taking Reed's arm, he gave a sudden, hard pull and then pushed the shoulder back into place with a loud _crack!_ The sound was nauseating but Reed gasped, tugged from unconsciousness by the sudden pain.

"Steady, Malcolm," Archer gently helped him to sit up, easing him back in the chair, "everyone's fine. You did it. We're safe – and it seems our pursuers have given up. They must think we're dead. You dislocated your shoulder – just give it a few minutes, I'll try to find us all some painkillers."

Reed nodded, blearily, too winded to speak. Archer stepped back to give him a few minutes to gather himself; he glanced around and saw Brogan prising the twisted door off a storage locker. He crossed over to lend her a hand.

"What are you doing?" he asked, gripping the door and adding his own strength to her efforts.

The door creaked and then gave way, popping open with a loud clang, sending the locker contents scattering across the floor.

"Gathering supplies," Brogan replied, "whatever happens we can't stay here. No such thing as rescue around here and that crash will have attracted the bandits who live in the deserts. We're screwed if we stay here. We need food, water, medical supplies and whatever weapons we can carry. We also need to ditch the Outpost 66 markings; bandits would shoot us on sight and collect the bounties offered by rival gangs."

"What are our chances out here?" Archer asked, quietly.

"If we can get to a settlement and score ourselves some land transport, we've got a ship stored in a hidden location far enough from '66 that we won't attract attention," Brogan replied, rifling quickly through their meagre supplies, "but we've got to contend with bandits, defensive settlers, raiders, probably search parties, and the local wildlife is none-too-friendly either..."

"Walk in the park, then," Archer said, grimly.

She spared him a tight smile, grabbed her backpack and began to stuff it with supplies. Archer copied her example, seizing his own bag and trying to work out just how much he could carry. D'Arcy was already sorting and distributing their weapons. Before long, they were joined by Trip, and then Malcolm. The five of them scouted through the ship, picking up whatever was salvageable and that could be carried on a long trek. Trip made sure he had the recovered Vulcan data PADD before they pulled on their jackets, shouldered their packs, and Archer forced the hatch open. Outside, the desert was oddly cool – a glance at the sky told Archer it was midday. It was only going to get colder as the day passed and night approached.

"Which way?" Trip asked, glancing around at the rocky, featureless landscape.

Brogan consulted a small device she had unclipped from her belt; "According to my maps, there's a settlement about six hour's walk from here – Outpost 35, I think. It would take us all day and all night to walk back to '66 – I reckon if we can find the settlement we might be able to negotiate hire of a rover and drive to my ship. That should at least get us off this damned rock."

"I think we should just walk straight for the _Coinin_ , boss," D'Arcy spoke up, slinging a large rifle over his shoulder and pointing in the opposite direction, "sure it's a day and a night away but the settlers might just shoot us on sight anyway, and we've enough firepower to see off the bandits."

"We don't have enough water to last us that long, Julian," Brogan countered, "the settlement is our best bet for fast transport and getting us out of here before Hammerhead organises his thugs enough to track down _Chanteloup_ and realise we're not as dead as he'd like us to be. I say settlement."

"I say ship," D'Arcy replied, stubbornly.

Archer glanced across at Reed; the five of them had used damp rags to clean the Outpost 66 markings from their faces and they had abandoned their covers completely now that they were clear of the outpost. The meant that Archer was back in command; they all looked and felt more like themselves despite the civilian clothing and tattoos. However, Reed knew the lay of the land and had the greater experience. He was nodding slightly.

"Brogan's correct, sir," he said, "it's too far and too dangerous to walk back anywhere near to '66; the settlers won't like us or trust us but they'll probably loan us a rover in exchange for weapons and whatever other supplies we can spare, especially as they'll be able to recover the vehicle. It's worth a shot."

D'Arcy snorted in derision but said nothing, clearly displeased that the decision had gone against him.

"Good," Archer nodded, "Brogan, you've got the scanner and the maps – you take point. Keep your eyes peeled; we don't know what's out there. Let's get moving."

With that, the five of them struck out into the desert, leaving behind the sad, smoking remains of the downed _Chanteloup._


	10. Chapter 10

The desert terrain was a mix of sand, rock and scrub gorse bushes. Gentle breezes constantly stirred and shifted the sands, bringing an added chill to the already cool air. The team occasionally caught glimpses of what looked like lizards basking on rocks, but they quickly disappeared when the humans approached. They sometimes passed low, rocky formations that seemed to be caves; when Trip queried one of them, Brogan told him to avoid it as the caves tended to lead to the tunnels often used by bandits and smugglers out in the desert, though she added her scanner would warn them if anything larger than a cat entered their vicinity. The sun gradually began to wane as dusk fell; it was around this time that Archer called a short break. Trip collapsed to the ground gratefully, taking a bottle of water from his pack and taking a healthy swig. D'Arcy dropped his pack onto the ground and flopped down, rifling through it to find his rations. Archer similarly sat down, but could not suppress a quirk of amusement; Brogan and Reed had remained standing and at alert posture, automatically visually scanning the horizon and their immediate surroundings. Their mutual background in security training was evident. After a few moments, they shared a glance and a nod, satisfied that the area was secure, and they too sat down.

"How far away do you think we are?" Archer asked, as he opened up one of the non-descript ration packs they had brought with them, reflecting that they were, if possible, even worse than the standard issue Starfleet packs he was used to.

"A couple of hours, maybe," Brogan shrugged, casually, "going gets slower at night; we've only got a couple of torches between us."

"It's gettin' colder," Trip noted, with a small shiver, "how cold does it get at night?"

"Below freezing," Reed told him, awkwardly trying to use his left hand to open a water bottle, "there's so little water in the ground or atmosphere that there won't be a frost, but it gets very cold on the exposed surface. It's common for people to freeze to death, but we should be okay for a couple of hours, as long as we keep moving."

Archer had noticed the awkward way in which Reed was holding his right arm and that he did not seem to be able to grip properly; it seemed the lieutenant's shoulder was bothering him somewhat. He was about to offer Reed an analgesic when a soft but persistent beeping distracted his attention. Brogan swore and snatched her scanner from her belt, checking the readings with wide eyes. Reed was already on his feet, scanning the horizon. D'Arcy had seized his rifle and was crouching, weapon at the ready.

"What is it?" Archer asked, urgently.

"Incoming – three, no, four blips – vehicles, probably," Brogan was standing now as well, scanner in her left hand, her rifle clutched in her right hand, "bet you a pitcher of beer it's fuckin' bandits. We're in the shit now."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Archer could not help but think Brogan was going to have to tone down her vocabulary somewhat if she did elect to return to _Enterprise_ with them – he did not mind so much, but he could only imagine how T'Pol might react to being cussed at by a subordinate, and some of the more proper-minded junior officers might find the lieutenant rather more intimidating than they were used to.

"There!" Reed pointed with his left hand; sure enough, a cloud of dust could be seen on the horizon, rapidly coming towards them.

"Maybe we can talk this out with them..." Archer began, but D'Arcy cut him off.

"No chance," he said, sharply, "They'll open fire as soon as we're in range. They'll kill us; strip us for weapons, supplies, and clothing, anything they can. Then they'll cut off our heads and either post them on pikes outside their camp or they'll take them to '66 to see if there's an outstanding bounty on us. We're done for if we let them get close... Sir."

"Can't talk to them, can't outrun them," Trip pointed out, "are you saying we have to fight?"

"Take them down as hard and fast as you can," Reed agreed, already sighting through his long-barrelled rifle; "trust me, sirs, they won't show mercy and they're not interested in talking."

"Don't suppose you've got any more of those shock grenades?" Brogan asked, grimly.

"Only one, but at this range it would knock us out as well."

"I knew you were going to say that..."

Archer watched as the vehicles came closer. They were shoddy, ramshackle, four-wheeled affairs that looked scratch built from whatever spares and bits could be salvaged, begged, bought or stolen from scrap yards. The lead vehicle was already close enough for Archer to see two masked figures sitting in the front – one was driving at the wheel, the other appeared to be holding a large rifle. This was confirmed when the first barrage of fire came in their direction. Archer, Trip and D'Arcy all dived for cover, however, Reed and Brogan calmly stood their ground, and Archer realised that the weapons were not particularly effective at long distance from a moving vehicle. Reed took the first shot, carefully aimed. The driver of the lead vehicle crumpled over his steering wheel; the vehicle veered madly off course, hit a rock and overturned several times before coming to a stop in a crumpled heap. D'Arcy fired from behind his cover, but missed, and swore under his breath, recharging the rifle for his next attempt.

Brogan fired, once, taking out the gunner of the second vehicle. However, by now, the vehicles had closed the gap and the barrage of fire increased in both frequency and accuracy. Reed and Brogan both ducked for cover and drew their shorter range disruptors; Archer and Trip joined them and D'Arcy in grimly returning fire. The vehicles surrounded them and the occupants leapt clear, using the cars as cover to continue their attack. Archer felt a surge of grim satisfaction as one of his shots found its mark and dropped a bandit unconscious to the floor, but he was forced back behind his rock by a wild spray of fire from underneath one of the cars.

Trip had ducked down next to him, and was fiddling with the settings on his pistol.

"What are you doing?" Archer asked, surprised.

"Deliberate overload," Trip replied, not taking his eyes off his work, "here goes..."

The disruptor pistol was emitting a high pitched whine that was building in volume. Trip glanced over the rock quickly to judge the distance, and then flung the weapon. It impacted the ground just in front of one of the cars, and then exploded, blowing the vehicle and the two bandits hiding behind it high into the air. Two vehicles and three gunmen remained; Brogan picked one off with a devastatingly accurate headshot. Archer took down another when the bandit foolishly risked trying to climb back into the vehicle; Reed finally dispatched the last one. An eerie, sudden silence fell over the desert, a sharp contrast to the roar of vehicle engines and weapons fire. The five team mates slowly stood up, dusting themselves off and confirming that no-one had suffered further injury.

"We need to keep going, boss," D'Arcy urged Brogan, as they holstered their weapons, "they'll have reported our position, there could be others out there trying to track us when these guys don't report in."

Trip had wandered over to the two cars that remained but his heart sank when he realised the fuel tanks had been punctured by weapons fire.

"The cars are too shot up," he reported, "I don't think either of these will get us back to your ship."

"In that case, help me search these bodies," Brogan said, already rifling through an unconscious bandit's pockets, "take any gold, weapons, food, tools, medicines – anything we can offer to the settlers to sweeten the deal. They won't easily part with one of their precious cars, even temporarily."

Trip nodded, and crouched down next to a masked man, hesitantly going through his pockets. Reed was nearby, efficiently combing through the contents of one of the vehicles. A groan distracted Trip and he glanced down, wondering if the man he was searching was regaining consciousness already. However, he failed to notice the figure stirring to his left, reaching for a weapon. The bandit had only caught a glancing blow from the stun setting and had quickly shaken off the effects; the blonde engineer was an easy target for revenge...

Reed, however, was much more alert, and saw both the movement and the disruptor, raising his voice in a cry of warning; "Trip! Look out!"

Trip whipped around, and saw the bandit, but the bandit's attention had been drawn by Malcolm's shout. With a wordless roar of anger, the bandit fired once, even as he was hit by twin stun beams as Archer and Brogan reacted simultaneously to the threat. To Trip, everything seemed to happen in slow motion; the bandit fired off one shot before crumpling under the two shots fired by the other officers; he heard Reed's wordless cry of pain, and he was up and running towards his friend before he had consciously registered that Reed had been hit, and had fallen from the vehicle. Trip reached him first, even as Archer, Brogan and D'Arcy were running to join them. Reed was sprawled on his back on the ground, drawing in short, gasping breaths; his left hand clutching his upper right arm, just above the elbow.

"Let me see!" Trip told him, urgently.

Reed shuddered, but was alert enough to comply, taking his hand away. Trip hissed in disgust; the wound was an ugly burn, typical of particle weapon technology. Where the flesh was not blackened and singed it was raw and bloody, and Trip could see from the pallor of Reed's face that he was rapidly slipping into shock.

"Stay with me, Malcolm," he said, desperately, even as Archer was rifling through his pack for a medical kit, "you've gotta stay awake, Mal."

Reed gritted his teeth against the pain and nodded, as Archer swiftly injected him with a painkiller and sprayed the wound with a cleaning agent.

"I can't bandage this," Archer said, worriedly, "if I do it's just going to stick, it'll do more harm than good... we don't have any non-adhesive dressings..."

"It will be fine, sir," Reed managed to speak, his voice sounding strained, "I can still walk..."

"We're still a good two hours or so from the settlement," Brogan told him, doubtfully, "think you can make it?"

"Can't stay here," Reed replied, "got to keep moving..."

Despite Trip's attempt at protest, Reed sat up with a groan, cradling his right arm carefully. Archer leant a steadying hand as he climbed to his feet – he swayed a little, but remained upright. Flexing the fingers of his right hand, he took some grim satisfaction that he could still move his digits, though it sent excruciating pain through his arm, shoulder and neck to do so. He tucked his right hand into his jacket pocket in a deceptively casual manner, hiding his weakness as best he could, picking up his rifle with his left hand. He held it out in an offertory manner, and Archer took it wordlessly – Archer now had the better chance of being able to use the longer range weapon, while Reed kept his smaller disruptor to hand.

"But you know, bandit weapons..." D'Arcy began, but Reed cut him off with a hard look and a terse; "It's fine."

D'Arcy immediately closed his mouth and gave brusque nod. Archer saw the doubtful look on Brogan's face, but the expression passed as quickly as it had come and the lieutenant shook her head, looking resigned.

"This way, then," she said, bluntly, and took the lead, scanner in hand.

Archer nodded and followed her, rifle slung over his shoulder with his pack. Reed reached down to pick up his fallen backpack, but Trip beat him to it, snatching the bag and slinging it over his own shoulder with his existing pack.

"Don't even think about it," Trip warned him, when Reed opened his mouth to protest.

With a small sigh, Reed shook his head, but managed to offer Trip a small smile of thanks. Together they struck out into the desert behind Archer and Brogan, with D'Arcy bringing up the rear.


	11. Chapter 11

The effort of walking was nothing compared to the sapping, numbing cold of the desert at night. Trip realised he was woefully underprepared in his thin jacket and jeans as he hugged the jacket closer to himself, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other in a slow, plodding, dogged determination to cross the desert and reach the settler's camp. Brogan had explained that these were civilian colonists, not generally involved in the high piracy and other gang warfare of Outpost '66 or the blatant raiding of the bandits, but nor would they be welcoming of strangers in their midst, fearing only for their livestock and livelihoods. He was not expecting a warm welcome, but a hot drink would be a blessing. He was idly contemplating how many more years they would be walking for when he heard a muffled thump. He jerked to a halt, and as his breath misted in front of his face, he realised that Reed had collapsed to the ground.

"Jon!" he called out, hoarsely, numb from the biting cold and exhaustion that had long since overtaken him.

Archer and Brogan both stopped and turned; it was no consolation to Trip that they looked as frozen and tired as he felt. Archer managed to stir himself into a stiff jog to rejoin him as Trip crouched down beside Reed. The armoury officer was completely unresponsive; only the slight misting of air around his blue lips told Trip that he was even still breathing. Behind them, D'Arcy stood in watch, keeping an eye on their surroundings.

"Shit," Brogan crouched beside Reed, her tone sounding resigned, "he did well to make it this far, I guess."

"We could rest here a while," Trip suggested, watching as Brogan carefully examined Reed's injured arm, "then see if he wakes up, or we could carry him the rest of the way?"

"There's no time," Brogan replied, guardedly, not meeting his gaze, "we're only about forty minutes away from the settlement. I could go on ahead, collect a vehicle and come back to pick you up."

"You can't do it alone," Archer told her, firmly, "D'Arcy and I will come with you. Trip, you stay here, see if you can find some shelter and take care of Malcolm."

Brogan made as if to protest, but a glance from Archer silenced her, reminding her that he was the ranking officer. Trip nodded, tiredly; "Hurry back, Jon."

"We will."

Trip watched as Archer and Brogan reluctantly turned away, gesturing to D'Arcy to follow them, resuming their long walk, taking one of the torches with them and leaving the other with Trip. He cast the beam around, and spotted a mound of rocks with a hollow in the middle. He slowly crossed over to it, and realised it was a small cave, no doubt one of the tunnels Brogan had warned him about previously. However, a careful examination showed no sign of life, and it beat sitting outside in the chilly breeze. He went back to Reed and, mindful of the ugly burn on his right arm, Trip gently shook his shoulder.

"Malcolm? C'mon, you need to wake up..."

Reed stirred, and groaned, shivering. His eyes opened slowly, and he stared at Trip, his gaze vacant and unfocussed.

"You with me, Mal?" Trip asked, worriedly.

"Trip?"

"Yeah, it's me. You fell... how're you feeling?"

Reed gave the tiniest shake of his head, and Trip's heart dropped. He had been expecting an 'I'm fine' or 'it's nothing'; even this most subtle of admissions scared Trip more than he cared to admit. He swallowed his fear, shivering in the ice-cold air.

"I've found shelter nearby," he said, slowly, "Jon, Brogan and D'Arcy have gone to fetch us a car; we can wait here for them. Think you can get up if I lend you a hand?"

This time, Reed managed a slow nod. Very carefully, Trip helped him to his feet, stumbling slightly as he found himself bearing most of the other man's weight. Taking Reed's left arm, he draped it over his shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged the tactical officer over to the rudimentary shelter. Depositing him carefully inside, Trip piled a few smaller rocks near the entrance, and then he reached out, silently taking Reed's second disruptor from its holster, leaving Reed with his custom-built gun. Dialling down the setting on Reed's disruptor, Trip fired a few charged shots into the pile of stones. They began to glow a deep red, white at the edges, superheated by the energy blast, and the warmth they emanated was as good as any campfire in the absence of any vegetation to produce firewood. Trip nodded to himself and sat down beside Reed. By the light of the torch, he was able to make a more detailed examination of the horrific disruptor wound; the burn itself was deep and raw, but the skin around the edges was puckered and blistering, a burning and angry-looking red. Trip carefully began to peel away the melted pieces of clothing at the edges of the wound; he was surprised to see that the blistering and redness had spread to the previously undamaged skin around the wound, and that it was unnaturally warm to his touch. Reed remained only semi-conscious throughout the examination, as Trip scowled and rocked back on his heels, taking in Malcolm's appearance.

The tactical officer looked awful by the harsh light of the torch. He was pale but with a hint of red across his sharp cheekbones. His eyes were sunken and hollow, and his breathing was too shallow, too irregular. The fingers of his right hand were horribly swollen, and Trip saw again that small blisters had begun to form on the back of his hand. Then, finally, it clicked, and he felt his heart almost stop in his chest as the implication hit him.

"That was no ordinary disruptor, was it?" the engineer said, at last.

He did not want to believe the theory that had just come to mind, but the small shake of Reed's head told him everything he needed to know even before the other man had summoned the energy to speak.

"Bandits... they build their weapons from whatever spares and scraps they can lay their hands on," Reed told him, "but most of the time they use ionised particle weapons. They're called 'dirty guns' and they're as likely to blow up and kill the user as they are the intended target."

"Ionised particles? Then when you were shot..." a sick, sinking feeling washed over Trip even as he said the words; "you've got radiation poisoning."

"Yes," Reed nodded, and gasped as pain shot through his arm.

Wincing, he adjusted his seating position slightly, leaning back against the cave wall behind him, as he continued; "It's mild. It can be treated... but it's not going to be pleasant and it's only going to get worse over time."

"You knew," Trip said, his tone slightly accusing, "you knew the moment that bandit had a bead on me – and you stopped him, he shot you instead of me, and then you said nothing. You should've said somethin', Malcolm!"

"What good would it do?" Reed countered, "We don't have the supplies here to treat this... I really hoped I'd at least make it to the settlement..."

The self-recrimination in his tone made Trip wince, and he scaled back his irritation with a sad sigh; "We weren't that far off. Jon, Brogan and D'Arcy should be back in about an hour and a half, two hours max. They'll bring transport and we can finally get to Brogan's ship and get off this hellhole."

"Sounds wonderful," Reed murmured, sleepily, as his eyes started to slide closed.

Trip leaned over and gently patted Reed's good shoulder, stirring him again.

"You gotta stay awake, Malcolm," he said, firmly, "it's far too cold out here; if we fall asleep we could become hypothermic. Come on, stay with me; don't leave me on my own out here..."

"Can't think," Malcolm shook his head, "need to sleep..."

Trip thought quickly, and then said, suddenly; "Tell me a joke."

Reed frowned at him, his expression a mix of pain, exhaustion and confusion; "What?"

"Tell me a joke. We'll take it in turns. It'll keep us awake."

"Jokes?"

"Yeah, come on," Trip encouraged him, warming to the idea, "you Brits have got an odd sense of humour, but you must know some jokes... here, I'll start: what's brown and sticky?"

"Uh... A stick?"

"See, you're gettin' it," Trip said, enthusiastically; "your turn – best joke gets to pick the next movie night showing."

Reed paused for a long moment, and Trip feared that he might be on the verge of passing out again. However, the lieutenant suppressed a shiver, and said, at long last; "What... What do you call a man with a shovel in his head?"

"Uh... What?"

"Doug."

"That's terrible."

"You started it."

"Okay, okay – what do you call a bird that does the drying up?"

"No idea."

"A teat-owl."

"Oh, Lord," Reed groaned, "alright... um... Why can't you hear a pterodactyl use the bathroom?"

Trip considered this for a moment and then shrugged; "Go on."

"Because the 'p' is silent."

Trip gave a dry snort of amusement, glancing towards the cave mouth as he tried to think of another terrible joke. He wondered how Archer and the other two were faring, and silently prayed they would make good time.


	12. Chapter 12

"We're making pretty good time," Brogan said, pausing to glance at Archer, "the settlement should be just beyond those rocks."

Archer nodded; "Excellent. The sooner we can get back to _Enterprise_ the better."

"I just hope my shuttle's up to it," Brogan sighed, picking her way over carefully across a particularly rough area of terrain, "it's only designed for short-distance flight. She's a hell of a lot smaller than the _Chanteloup_..."

There was a moment of silence as they walked, until Archer asked, conversationally; "How long have you two been working undercover?"

"Too long," Brogan replied, a little distantly, "personally, about six years, I guess. I've had various assignments, but Harris sent me back here about a year ago. It's my third stint on '66 and the longest one yet – I just want out, but Harris won't let me go. He's still pretty pissed that Malcolm left. D'Arcy's been here for about four months and he wants out just as much as I do. Hell, a day in '66 has that effect on anyone, Malcolm would be the first to tell you that."

"He tried to," Archer sighed, "I... I should probably have listened a bit more... So; you and Malcolm - you've known each other for a long time, then?"

Brogan caught his questioning tone and laughed; "Oh, God – yeah, we trained together at the academy, but no, nothing like that – Malcolm's not my type... besides, he seems to prefer straight women. I'm a little more... fifty-fifty, if you catch my drift?"

"Of course," Archer smiled, "But you worked together, here?"

"Yeah, for about eight months on my first stint, and then I came back for another six. Malcolm was here the whole time, one long straight posting. I don't know how he did it, but when I came back he'd managed to set up one of the most powerful gangs on '66 and all without killing anyone or actually committing a major crime in the process."

"Woolf's Pack?" Archer guessed.

"You got it," Brogan nodded, briefly consulting her scanner again, "the Woolf's Paw is recognised all across the Orion Syndicate but there's only a handful of people who actually know what Kyle Woolf looks like – most members who affiliate themselves only do it because of the protection the Paw offers from other members. It's weird."

"How long has it been since you served in uniform?"

"Too bloody long," Brogan laughed; "sorry, I do keep forgetting my etiquette, don't I? _Sir_..."

Archer quirked an amused grin; "I think under the circumstances I can let that slide, but you'll probably want to brush up a bit back on _Enterprise_... Malcolm's a stickler for procedure."

"Don't I know it," Brogan rolled her eyes, "we had to do a smuggler's run to a colony a few light years from here to cover for delivering some intel to Harris. We ran into pirates and barely escaped alive. We were smashed to hell, Malcolm had a bleeding head wound and shrapnel in his arm, I'd broken my wrist and a couple of ribs, but he still insisted on completing the mission and filing his soddin' report before we could get medical help."

"That sounds like him," Archer nodded, amused, "do you know, we once got trapped in this alien minefield – a mine attached itself to the hull of the ship. Reed went EV to defuse it, but a spike from the mine impaled his leg and pinned him to the hull... he had to talk me through defusing the mine but I had to bully him into doing it – he was ready to die first..."

"Sounds about right," snorted Brogan, "he's a tough guy to get to know. I had to get him seriously drunk before he'd tell me anything about himself and his family."

"Wait – you managed to get him drunk? I can't imagine it – Trip claims he's done it a couple of times but he's usually been so wasted as well he can't remember anything."

"Many, many times – it's about the only legal leisure activity here on '66," Brogan grinned, "there was this one time, I remember..."

"Sorry, boss," D'Arcy rumbled, from behind them, "I think those are stories for another day – we're almost there."

Archer glanced up; sure enough, there, nestled amongst the rocks, were small, squat, domed buildings, as grey and brown as the landscape around them, no doubt virtually indistinguishable from desert features to anything flying overhead. Brogan holstered her scanner and he weapon and held her hands up in front of her as she walked confidently towards the tiny settlement. Archer copied her example, noting pens containing a collection of hardy sheep and cattle. On the outskirts of the settlement, a few night watchmen noted their presence and a bell rang out along with a sharp, female voice.

"Who's there? Identify yourselves!"

"My name is Brogan!" the lieutenant shouted back, "This is Archer and D'Arcy! We were attacked by bandits, our shuttle was shot down. We want to negotiate borrowing a rover to get back home!"

"Come closer!"

The three of them obeyed and Archer found they were surrounded by half a dozen hardened colonists, all wrapped up in thick layers against the night chill and armed with heavy assault rifles. A grey-haired woman with only one eye appeared to be in charge, as she glared at them appraisingly.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" she asked, suspiciously, "You ain't from these parts."

"We were passing through '66," Brogan replied, vaguely, "my ship had engine trouble and we had to set down in the desert. We were attacked by bandits – I need a rover to get back to my settlement and pick up a replacement shuttle."

"Fuck off! Don't want one of my rovers ending up in bandit hands," the woman spat, "need 'em too much."

"We'll make it worth your while," Archer said, authoritatively, "we'll give you money – weapons – ration packs – medical supplies – whatever you want."

The woman began to look interested, but the rifles did not lower as she ordered; "Show me."

Obediently, Brogan began taking the weapons from her belt and emptied her pack onto the floor. Archer and D'Arcy copied her example; between them there were four emergency medical kits, three rifles, four handguns, half a dozen ration packs, their torch, a scanner, a spare communicator and, finally, Brogan produced a small bag of gold coins.

"There's more," she added, tossing the bag onto the ground with a heavy clinking sound, which clearly aroused the grey-haired woman's interest, "if you kill us, you only get this pathetic pile. But if you lend us a rover, you can recover the car later and there'll be another bag of gold stored in the safe box. I'll also give you co-ordinates for my downed ship, and the location of a secret weapons stash I've been keeping. I've gotta get off this rock in a hurry and I ain't ever coming back, so you're welcome to the lot. At least a dozen rifles, more disruptors than I'd care to count, three Klingon shock sticks, a couple of crates of grenades, and a low-yield ground plasma cannon. There's also three localised shield generators. You'd have the best armoured settlement this side of Outpost 12."

"That's a hell of a lot to pay to borrow a rover," the woman's suspicions were not allayed, but the rifle was being lowered.

"I'm pretty fuckin' desperate," Brogan said, with just the right amount of honesty and reluctance, "I screwed up a job for Hammerhead and now I gotta get the hell outta here before he skins me alive and puts my head on a pike outside the main gates of '66. You gonna take the offer?"

The woman hesitated, and then nodded, shouldering her rifle.

"Joey, fetch rover 4," she ordered.

One of the men nodded and disappeared. Archer waited silently, watching the cold, hard expressions on the faces around him, and he wondered why these people would have wanted to leave the safety and comfort of Earth to scratch out such a dangerous, meagre living on this barren rock. Nearby, an engine coughed, stalled, coughed again and then rumbled to life, and within minutes a four-wheeled car drove into sight. The driver jumped out, leaving the engine running. Archer eyed it doubtfully; it was dented and worn; barely rusted, thanks to the lack of moisture in the desert, but it was literally being held together by tape, wire, and sheer desperation from the looks of it.

"It'll do," Brogan nodded, and took a data chip from one of the many pockets on her utility belt, "this gives you the location of my stash. Help yourselves. I'll activate the rover's beacon when we're done with it. You can collect it when you want, and you'll find gold in the safe box under the driver's seat, along with my account details to access more. Are we done here?"

"Fine," the woman nodded, waving her rifle carelessly, "get gone, before I decide to kill you all and cut my losses."

Archer did not need telling twice; he climbed into the gunner's seat as Brogan took the wheel, obviously more familiar with the design of the archaic vehicle than Archer was. D'Arcy clambered into the back seat, looking slightly bereft at the loss of his rifle as he toyed with his knife instead. Brogan gunned the engine and took off at speed, hurtling into the desert.

Hanging on for dear life, Archer marvelled at the way the vehicle skipped over the uneven terrain – as shoddy as it looked, it had large, thick, studded tyres that gripped the ground and kept the car on course, with high suspension and a wide wheelbase. Once clear of the settlement, Brogan slowed to a more reasonable speed. After driving for some time, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, confirming that they were not being followed, and then used one hand to unclip her scanner from her belt, consulting it with her left hand as she steered with her right.

"I marked their position on the map," she said, punching a couple of buttons, "hopefully this won't take... aw, shit!"

The last expletive was as the result of a loud bang as the rover backfired loudly, an explosion of noise, and then the engine cut out completely. Smoke puffed out from beneath the bonnet as the rover slowed, and rolled to a gradual stop. For a long moment, the only sound was the _tick-tick-tick_ of cooling metal from the bonnet. Brogan swore again and slapped the steering wheel.

"Piece of shit," she muttered, and climbed out of her seat.

Archer followed, and walked around the front of the vehicle. D'Arcy remained in the back seat, though he stood up to see what was going on. Between the two of them, they managed to get the hood open, and Archer waved his hand to dissipate the cloud of smoke and steam that rose up to meet them. He stared at the blackened, oily, archaic engine with dismay.

"Damn," he said, softly, "we could really do with Trip's help..."

"Eh, hopefully I can rig something – just need to work out what's wrong with this piece of crap. Bear with me..."

Brogan prodded around in the engine, pulling various bits out, examining them and then putting them back. Climbing onto the front of the rover she was just able to reach the back of the massive engine, and swore again. Archer suppressed a smile; clearly Brogan had an extremely colourful vocabulary when things were not going well.

"The engine's overheated," she reported, at last, wiping oily hands carelessly down her jeans, "there's no bloody coolant in it; we're lucky we didn't blow out the head gasket. We'll have to wait until it cools down and hope it restarts. It's going to slow us down though..."

"Damn," Archer said, again, "anything we can do?"

Brogan shook her head; "If we try pouring water over it we risk cooling it too quickly and cracking the casing. It's cold enough out here – give it fifteen minutes or so and then we'll see where we're at."

Leaving the hood open to increase the flow of cool air over the cooked engine, Brogan sat down on the floor and leaned back against the bumper of the rover. Archer sat down next to her, casting a glance up at the clear, starry desert sky. The beauty of the heavens was a stark contrast to the gritty, hard life lived out on this planet, he reflected. He sighed, shivered and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He was cold to the core, exhausted, and sore. His whole body ached after the crash and he wanted nothing more than a hot meal, a long shower, clean clothes and a comfortable bed to sleep in. He just hoped that Trip and Malcolm were holding up.


	13. Chapter 13

Trip checked the charge on his disruptor, noting with dismay that the power was almost completely depleted. Nonetheless, he used it to recharge the heat in his rock pit, moving closer to the warmth emanating from the makeshift 'fire'. If anything, it was getting colder, and he could barely feel his hands. The warmth from the rocks was a small comfort but it was better than nothing. He checked his scanner; it had been over two hours since Archer, Brogan and D'Arcy had headed out into the desert and he was worried. They had no means of communicating and for all he knew the three of them could have run into hostiles – it did not bear thinking about. He had considered waiting until sunrise and then heading off, though he wasn't sure where to, exactly... and besides, their torch battery had died an hour ago. He did not fancy stumbling around in the dark. In any event, there was no way that Malcolm was making any long distance hikes.

The engineer cast a concerned glance at his friend; Reed had finally passed out about half an hour ago despite Trip's best efforts, and he could not be roused. Trip moved closer to Reed, mindful of his injured arm, sitting beside him, between the lieutenant and the cave entrance. Trip drew his knees up to his chest, tucking his arms in, in an effort to preserve heat. He was sharply reminded of the time they had almost frozen to death in shuttlepod one, and with a dry chuckle he wished he had packed a bottle of bourbon for this particular venture. Suddenly, the scanner emitted its low, proximity warning beep. Trip frowned, and then his head jerked up at a slight noise and he held his breath, listening carefully. The sound came again; a low, but distinct growling sound. He grabbed the scanner even as he was reaching for his weapon; there was something approaching the mouth of the cave, and it sounded very displeased. Trip scrambled to his feet, peering into the darkness, gun raised defensively. A dark shadow moved towards him, and growled again. By the light of the stars, Trip could distinguish something about the size of an Alsatian dog, coated in thick, mottled fur, and growling deeply. The shape prowled forwards, lashing a long, whip-like rat tail, ending in a sharp barb. It gave a low, mewling roar, rearing up and snarling threateningly. Trip raised his gun and fired; however, the disruptor made a pathetic fizzing noise; gave a soft whine, and the power core finally depleted, rending the weapon ineffective. The creature braced, crouched, and sprang, even as Trip steeled himself for the inevitable impact, raising his arm defensively to cover his face.

The high, waspish whine of a disruptor discharge cut through the air, striking the animal squarely in the ribs and sending it crashing to the floor at the mouth of the cave, just a few inches short of Trip. It twitched, twice, and then lay motionless, dead. Trip lowered his arm and stared at it in shock.

"It's a _cur'tallia_ ," said a familiar voice, in the darkness, "that's the Orion name for them, anyway. Humans call them whiptails. The barb at the end of the tail is poisonous. This one's big, must be a female. I guess we're in her den."

"That's the second time today you've saved my life," Trip commented, slowly, shaking himself out of his shock, "Are there going to be any more of those monsters around?"

"No," Reed shook his head, lowering his left arm and re-holstering his gun, "they're very territorial. This one must have been out hunting. She can't have been successful or she wouldn't have attacked, they're generally quite timid. Ma'Khet used to keep one as a pet."

"Right..." Trip said, doubtfully, "good shootin', by the way – I didn't know you could shoot left-handed."

"I've practiced."

"Doesn't surprise me," Trip smiled, and sat back down next to Reed, "how're you feelin'?"

"I'll be fine," Reed glanced away, evasively, "any sign of the captain?"

"Nothin' yet," Trip replied, worry creeping into his tone, "they've been gone a long time... my disruptor's out of charge and we're almost out of water and painkillers..."

"But other than that, everything's great," Reed mumbled, tiredly, "damn... I can't feel my right hand anymore."

It was too dark for Trip to make any kind of examination of Reed's injury, but the admission was frightening. He shivered, trying desperately to think of something to say or do. However, a warning beep from the scanner told him that something was approaching the cave again. He glanced at Reed, who gave him a nod, and drew his pistol, handing it to the engineer. Trip took it, crouching by the mouth of the cave. He could hear the rumble of an approaching engine – then he saw it, a single vehicle, headlights flickering erratically as it crawled at a low speed over the rough terrain. It came to a halt a short distance from the cave, as the engine stalled and died. Trip winced – it sounded like the rover was on its last legs, and the mechanic in him felt some small sympathy for the abused and battered vehicle. Three figures climbed out of the vehicle, moving with wary caution, and Trip immediately relaxed, lowering his gun; he recognised the familiar silhouettes.

"Jon!" he called out, softly, "over here – by the cave!"

A torch beam flicked on and swept in his direction. He flinched and raised a hand as the beam struck his eyes, but it was immediately lowered, as Archer, Brogan and D'Arcy jogged over to join them.

"Trip! Thank God. How's Malcolm?"

"Not doing so great, Jon," Trip shook his head, "the bandits were using ionised plasma weapons – he's being poisoned by the exposure to radiation."

"Shit, I knew that might happen," Brogan sounded upset, "stubborn bastard wouldn't say anything, though..."

She turned away, catching sight of the fallen creature that had attacked only a few minutes previously. She glanced at Trip, raising her eyebrow, but said nothing, and stepped into the cave. Archer followed her, and crouched down beside Reed. The younger man looked awful; too pale, with a feverish flash of red in his cheeks and dark hollows beneath his eyes. His right arm was still covered by his jacket sleeve, but Archer could see his hand was badly swollen and blistered.

"Hey, Malcolm," he tried to keep his tone light and conversational.

Reed sleepily met his gaze and raised a small smile; "Good to see you, captain."

"How about we get you out of here?"

"Sounds like a good plan, sir... Brogan...?"

"I'm here, mate," the tall woman crouched down, her expression serious, "what do you need?"

"Just a pick-me-up..."

Brogan winced and pulled a face; "Is that such a good idea? Might do more harm than good..."

"It'll get me back to your shuttle. After that, we'll see."

With a small sigh, Brogan searched through her belt pockets and eventually produced a small hypospray, though Archer was unfamiliar with the design.

"What's that?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Metabolic stimulant, of sorts," Brogan replied, and moved to deliver the injection, but Trip lunged, grabbing her wrist to stop her.

"Are you crazy? A stimulant will only increase the spread of the radiation poisoning... you can't do that!"

"I have to, Trip," Reed said, quietly, "if we run into bandits in the desert again you won't be able to carry me. I'll need to be able to stand and fight if needs be. Trust me. It will be fine."

"I'm not sure this is a good idea, Malcolm," Archer's voice cut in, authoritatively, "I'm not willing to risk your health for the sake of what might happen..."

"Sir, I can't use my right arm," Reed's voice was soft in the darkness, but Archer could hear a tiny thread of desperation in his tone, "I'm not sure I can stay conscious, let alone walk. The stimulant is mild; we use them regularly to stay awake for days on end on assignment. The side effects are minimal – it won't do me any real harm."

Archer glanced at Brogan, who gave him a small nod; "He's right. It's fairly common practice amongst agents. Malcolm here still holds the record – fifteen days straight without sleep and only a mild hangover to show for it afterwards. It's how an agent can stay ahead of their target and never lose track, or push on through an injury... we use them all the time."

"That's...brutal," Archer said, vaguely horrified by the thought of Starfleet officers taking drugs to push beyond their limits for the sake of duty.

"That's Section 31," Brogan replied, bluntly, "are you going to let me go, Commander?"

Reluctantly, at Archer's nod, Trip released her arm, and Brogan turned back to Reed.

"Are you sure about this?"

A small nod; "Do it."

She delivered the injection; the effect was instantaneous. Reed felt his heart rate accelerate slightly, and he drew in a deep, steadying breath to counter the sudden head rush that momentarily clouded his vision. He blinked, and, taking another deep breath, he flexed his left hand, and then slowly, shakily, he pushed himself off the floor and onto his feet. Trip was there, supporting him, and he gratefully leaned slightly against his friend. The stimulant was, indeed, only mild; it would keep him awake for a while and he could tell Brogan had surreptitiously added some strong painkillers into the mix, no doubt to prepare him for the rough land rover journey; he gave her a nod.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," she waved her hand and secreted the hypospray back into one of her pockets, "right, let's do this shit and get outta here..."

They headed back to the rover; Brogan jumped into the driver's side, on the left of the vehicle. Archer climbed into the gunner's seat up front; Reed sat behind Brogan and Trip took the remaining place behind Archer. D'Arcy had climbed onto the back of the vehicle, standing on the tailgate and hanging onto the roll bar over the top of the back seats. Brogan pressed the electric start button; the engine coughed several times and then eventually spluttered to life.

"We don't have any coolant," she explained, selecting the drive setting and then slowly pressing the accelerator, "but hopefully this heap will make it to my shuttle..."

"How far?" Trip called out, as they pulled away from their makeshift campsite.

"It would have taken us twenty hours or more to walk there," Brogan called, over her shoulder, "It's about one hundred and ten miles from here – we should be able to drive it in a couple of hours, given I'm stuck to low speeds to keep the engine cool."

"Just take it steady," Archer warned her, "I'd rather get there a little slower than risk blowing up the engine."

"Will do," Brogan nodded, "Trip, check the boxes under your seat – there may be some blankets under there. I'm freezing!"

Trip did has he was told, finding two metal storage crates shoved under the hard bench seat. The locks were all broken; he simply opened the lids, rifling through the musty contents. He found a few tattered blankets, a bottle of brackish water which he discarded, and a few expired ration packs. He abandoned everything except the blankets, selecting the five warmest looking ones; he passed one to Archer, and then draped one over Brogan's shoulders. He turned to give one to Reed, but the other man simply shook his head and waved his left hand dismissively. D'Arcy simply shook his head when Trip tried to offer one to him, the muscular, tattooed ensign concentrating on hanging onto the back of the vehicle. Trip shrugged and wrapped one around himself; grateful for the small amount of warmth and wind protection that it offered. He glanced across at Reed; he could see the pinched, pained expression on Malcolm's face, the awkward way in which he held his right arm, and the pallor of his face. His eyes looked unnaturally bright in the starlit gloom; he was breathing too rapidly for Trip's liking, and the constant bouncing motion of the rover was clearly doing nothing to help the pain and nausea he was experiencing. Still, he was awake and coherent, though how much of this was down to stimulants it was hard to tell.

"What's the range of your shuttle?" Archer asked Brogan, having to shout to be heard over the noise of the struggling engine and the wind that whipped around them from their velocity, "Is it going to be able to make the journey to _Enterprise_? It took us three days to get here at warp three."

"My shuttle can manage warp two point six, and that's on a good day!" Brogan called back, not taking her eyes off the terrain as she navigated around larger rock formations, "It's probably going to take four or five days to reach your rendezvous zone. My shuttle's only really built for two and short distance travel – it's going to be cramped and we'll have to conserve her power supplies."

"And I thought _Chanteloup_ was bad," Trip grimaced, "what's her classification?"

" _Coinin_ hasn't got one!" Brogan replied, cheerfully, "She's unique, scratch built by engineers at Section 31 from old boomer ships, a salvaged Orion shuttle and a few other things... You'll see when we get there."

"I can't wait," Trip muttered, under his breath, leaning back in his seat.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Reed assured him, suppressing a cough, " _Chanteloup_ was built for smuggling and distance runs – the _Coinin_ was built for stealth and discretion. She'll at least get us out of the system undetected..."

Reed broke off, coughing; Trip reacted in alarm but Reed waved him back, drawing in a couple of shallow, ragged breaths; he leaned over the side of the rover and spat, coughing again; Trip cringed at the sound of retching, sharing a worried glance with Archer. The captain shook his head; there was nothing they could do without access to decent medical help.

Straightening up in his seat, Reed gasped a few times and managed to steady his breathing, shuddering. This time, when Trip proffered him a blanket, he accepted. Trip helped him wrap it under his right arm and then up and over his left shoulder, avoiding the angry wound on his upper right arm while still covering him as warmly as possible.

"Thanks," Reed hung his head, obviously ashamed of his apparent weakness.

"Don't mention it," Trip patted him reassuringly on the back, "just hang in there. It's not too far..."


	14. Chapter 14

By the time Brogan rolled their vehicle to a stop, the sun was starting to climb over the horizon. By the light of day, Trip realised just how tired and unkempt they all appeared; the three men were rough shaven, sporting heavy stubble. All of them were coated in desert dust, filthy and battered from the crash. Their eyes were bloodshot and exhausted and they moved like arthritic geriatrics, mindful of their bruised and battered bodies. Grateful to be out of the bumpy and uncomfortable rover, Trip climbed down and stretched gratefully, seeing Archer do the same. Brogan helped Reed out of the car, steadied him, and then glanced around.

"We're here," D'Arcy announced, grandly, jumping off the tailgate and stretching his burly arms appreciatively.

Archer looked around. It looked like the same piece of desert they'd left behind a couple of hours ago.

"I don't see a ship," he said, doubtfully.

"Well, I couldn't exactly leave her sitting out for just anyone to find," Brogan replied.

She took a small coin bag from her belt and threw it into the box under the driver's seat; Archer was a little surprised that she was honouring her promise to the settlers for another bag of gold coins. She caught his expression and smiled.

"It's not as if I need it anymore," she pointed out, "besides, the settlers aren't a bad lot – ex-boomers for the most part who got tired of flying around in boxes but can't face the thought of living the cushy live on Earth. They'll make good use of the cash."

"Maybe they'll buy some engine coolant with it," Archer said, dryly, "okay, so where's your ship?"

"I'm getting to that..." Brogan took a small control unit from one of her many pockets, this one inside her long trench coat, and pressed in a six-digit code. A few meters away, the sand shifted, and a hatch lifted open, straight up out of the ground. D'Arcy crossed over to it, and hauled it fully open, revealing a ladder.

"This leads down to the silo," he said, "the lights are on down there – after you."

"Malcolm?" Archer said, uncertainly.

"It's not far, captain. I'll manage."

Archer nodded, and went down the ladder first, closely followed by Trip. Reed glanced at Brogan – an unspoken message passed between them, and she took the hypo from her belt again.

"Maybe you should hang onto this," she said, simply, passing it to him.

"Thanks," he automatically checked the dispenser; there were six doses left. He immediately took one, feeling the rush of adrenaline as the pain receded and his head cleared slightly. He still felt sick to his stomach and his breathing was getting harsher, but as long as he could function on some level he knew he could cope. Shoving the hypo into his jeans pocket, he awkwardly climbed down the ladder one-handed. He was grateful Archer and Trip were already at the bottom; he feared he might have collapsed had Trip not been there to steady him as he made it to the ground.

Archer looked around their surroundings; they were in a tiny, metal walled silo, featureless save for a few tool-scattered workbenches and a strip of lighting around the tops of the walls. In the middle of the room sat _Coinin_ ; the shuttle was indeed tiny but well equipped. It had a slightly box-shaped appearance with sharp, angular wings and a tapering nose with a mounted laser cannon. D'Arcy came down next and crossed straight to one of the workbenches, already setting to work hauling out storage crates to be packed with supplies. Brogan was the last one down the ladder and she jumped the last few rungs, landing neatly on the floor and crossing swiftly to the workbenches.

"Grab anything that looks useful," she told them, snatching up a canvas bag from the floor and throwing tools into it haphazardly, "I don't plan on coming back to this shithole, so we might as well clear out whatever we can carry."

Trip delved in with pleasure, already snagging a few micro-welders, torque wrenches, power units, relay circuits and other spares. Archer went raiding some of the cupboards; ration packs, medical supplies, weapons, torches, blankets, clothing, anything that he could fit into the two supply crates Brogan gave him. He opened one cupboard and actually smiled.

"Does Commander Harris know about this little stash?"

"Spies keep more secrets than anyone, captain," Brogan said, smoothly, "What Harris doesn't know about is pretty minimal, but if he knows about this, he's never objected."

Archer eyed the bottles and decided that at some point during the flight they would be considered off-duty, so he grabbed a bottle of bourbon, one of whiskey, a vodka, and several bottles of the ale that Brogan and D'Arcy apparently favoured. They transferred as much equipment and supplies into the shuttle as they could fit. Reed, feeling more than a little bit useless, sat in the pilot's chair, pointing out all of the places where various items could be stored in the tiny shuttle. The facilities were limited – a pilot's chair, co-pilot's seat, two fold-away single bunks and a small padded bench seat occupied the main cabin. A toilet and sink were hidden in a tiny cabin at the back of the shuttle, but there was nothing else. The empty space at the back was used for stacking a few crates and their meagre supplies. Brogan had kept the place extremely well stocked for one or two people, but five was definitely pushing it.

Working left-handed, Reed ran through all of the pre-flight checks while the other four secured their supplies. Brogan opened up the two fold-down beds, laying out pillows and blankets, while Archer began to sort through their medical supplies. Trip concentrated on tools and engineering – _Coinin_ was indeed a cobbled-together affair, and although she looked well-maintained, Trip wanted to ensure that he could keep her flying given the length of their journey, especially if they ran into any trouble. D'Arcy was taking care of weapons; checking and storing them in easy to access places, well aware of the risks of being intercepted and boarded whilst still within range of Outpost 66.

Eventually, Reed tapped a few buttons on the console; the lighting activated as the engines powered up; warm air began to cycle through the cabin as the life-support system came online, and the tiny ship came to life.

"She's ready when you are, Brogan," Reed stood up, carefully, steadying himself against the console as dizziness washed over him.

"Great!" Brogan drew the hatch closed, and practically skipped to the pilot's chair, "Malcolm, do yourself a favour – go and lie down before you fall over. Captain, if you'd like to join me up front? Julian, you and Trip will want to find somewhere to sit for takeoff; once we're clear of the atmosphere you can probably get some sleep. I'll take the first flying stint."

"Agreed," Archer took the co-pilot's chair, leaving Trip to sit beside Reed on one of the unfolded, made-up beds.

D'Arcy sat down on the opposite bed, wrapping one arm around the fold-away hinge, affecting a casual air but keeping his eyes fixed on Brogan in the cockpit. Something about the burly ensign made Trip uncomfortable; he was a tall, muscular, silent beast of a man, all brawn and very little personality, a sharp contrast to Brogan's ready smile and quick wit. Trip was suddenly struck by the 'brains and brawn' contrast between the two and wondered if this was a deliberate move on the part of Section 31. He recalled Malcolm telling him that Section 31 only recruited the best of the best in their various fields; Reed's particular talents had been in the field of ordinance, tactics and weaponry; Brogan obviously had an intelligence background, while D'Arcy was clearly physically powerful and incredibly intimidating. As if on cue, D'Arcy cast a quick glance at the engineer and Trip realised he was staring. He glanced away quickly, wondering again why the ensign made him so uncomfortable.

Sitting on the thin mattress alone felt like luxury, and Trip suddenly realised that he was so bone-tired all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week. A loud, grinding noise made him instinctively glance upwards; the sound of sand and pebbles raining down on the outer hull of the cabin told him that the silo roof was opening, folding outwards, opening up to release the hidden _Coinin_. Brogan slowly increased the engine power.

"Initiating take-off procedure," she reported, "inertial dampeners engaged, hull plating polarised, and we're ready to go."

Archer felt a surge of relief as the shuttle slowly lifted off and rose out of the bay; sunlight streamed through the cockpit window, momentarily blinding him, but then they were rising into the sky. He glanced down; in the far distance, he could see the sprawling mess of Outpost '66; at once, he understood Reed's initial reluctance to have had to return to the place and he swallowed in sympathy. He prayed he never had to set eyes on this inhospitable place ever again. It was worse for him knowing it was primarily human influence that had turned it into such a den of iniquity, when all he wanted to strive for was to represent humanity at its best. He sighed, and turned away, shifting his attention upwards. The clear blue sky darkened as the blue gave way to deeper purples, and then eventually the blackness of space, bedecked with stars. Archer felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; they were finally clear of the dangers on the planet below.

"We're clear," Brogan said, as if echoing his thoughts, "if anyone wants to get some sleep, I think now's your chance. We can take it in turns to fly... captain, if you'd just like to let me know our course...?"

Archer gave her the co-ordinates even as he slowly stood up. He glanced over at Trip and Reed; the tactical officer was failing fast, and Trip looked virtually asleep sitting up. D'Arcy immediately stood up and silently took over the co-pilot's chair from the captain.

"Trip, you take the other bed – get some sleep," Archer told the engineer, "I think I'll stay up a while longer yet... Malcolm, let me take another look at your arm..."

Trip did not need telling twice; with a jaw-breaking yawn he hopped off the bunk, crossed to the other side of the cabin, kicked off his boots and was asleep under the blanket within minutes. Archer, having sorted through their medical supplies earlier, knew exactly what he needed. Fetching the box over, he first took a sharp pair of scissors, cutting away what remained of the sleeve of Reed's jacket, helping the younger man to remove the rest of the coat, casting the ruined garment to one side.

Archer swallowed with revulsion at the sight of Reed's arm; the burn was weeping with a mixture of blood and pus, while the blistering had spread to cover nearly all his arm. Many of the blisters had burst, leaving angry, red sores behind. Reed shivered slightly without the warmth of his jacket, though Archer could see the feverish brightness in his tired eyes. After spraying the burn with an antiseptic solution, Archer set to work, cleaning and bandaging the injury as best he could with moistened bandages to prevent them from sticking to the raw wound. Reed gritted his teeth, but could not prevent the occasional gasp or wince of pain as Archer carefully wrapped his whole arm in swathes of clean, white bandaging, covering the angry, sore blisters.

"Sorry," the captain grimaced, as he inadvertently touched a particularly raw spot, eliciting a yelp of pain, "who in God's name would even think to make a weapon that could do something like this...?"

"They're based on a design commonly used during the eugenics wars," Reed told him, his voice little more than a whisper, "ionised weapons were about the only thing guaranteed to take down a genetically enhanced soldier; not even they were immune to radiation poisoning, though it took them a bloody long time to die. Bandits use them because they're cheap, dirty and effective. It's a nasty way to go."

"You're gonna be fine, Malcolm – we'll get you back to _Enterprise_ as soon as we can."

Archer could feel Reed shivering as he finished binding the bandages around his hand, leaving the fingers exposed.

"You need to get some rest," the captain said, gently, "I'll give you something for the pain, and this should help with the sickness and other symptoms..."

He selected two different hypo-sprays, and gave Reed a dose from each. The tactical officer murmured his thanks, kicked off his heavy boots, and stretched out on the thin mattress of the bunk. Archer watched him blink, drowsily, and then his eyes slid shut. Sitting on the very edge of the bed, Archer waited until Reed's breathing evened out, and, once he was sure his officer was asleep, Archer picked up the blanket and gently laid it over him, careful not to touch his injured arm. At a loss for anything else to do, he glanced briefly at Trip's sleeping form, and then went back to the front of the cockpit; D'Arcy glanced at him and then at Brogan. She nodded to the ensign, who reluctantly relinquished his seat and went to the back of the cabin, sitting down on a cargo crate, pulling out his knife and twirling it between his fingers idly. Archer dropped into the co-pilot's seat next to Brogan, turning his attention away from the surly ensign. Brogan gave him a slight sideways look, but otherwise kept her attention on her control panel.

"How's he doing?" she asked, quietly.

Archer hesitated, not knowing what to say, but Brogan beat him to it.

"That good, hey?"

"Yeah," Archer tiredly scrubbed a hand over his face, "I... I don't really know what else we can do. I've cleaned and bandaged his arm, but the poison is spreading through his system, you can tell from the amount of blistering... it'll eat him alive from the inside out if we don't get him through decontamination and to Dr. Phlox as soon as we can. It's already making him sick, if it gets into his lungs..."

Archer trailed off, and there was a long moment of silence. It was the captain who finally broke it.

"You've seen this before, haven't you?" he asked, quietly, seeing the strange expression on Brogan's face.

"Yes," she ducked her head slightly, "and so has Malcolm... he knows exactly what to expect. It was early days, there were four of us on the job back then. We'd infiltrated a gang and were trying to gain access to some advanced alien tech Section 31 wanted to get its hands on – and by any means necessary. We were sent to raid a bandit camp – Malcolm didn't want to go, he said at the time it was a fool's errand that would get us all killed, but our commanding officer back then was a Lt. Dyer. He ordered us all to take part – he called Malcolm a coward, to his face as well - bloody hell, I thought Mal was gonna deck him at the time. There was us and Ensign Jessica Malloy... Malcolm was right, it was a total screw-up. We barely made it out with a couple of others, but Jess took a hit to the leg. Malcolm went over Dyer's head and called for Jess's extraction. Harris refused, saying it would blow our cover and the tech was of more vital importance. It took poor Jess a fortnight to die, and there ain't no hospitals in '66 to speak of... she... she suffered. A lot... We did everything we could, but..."

She broke off, shaking her head and looking away quickly, tearing away from the painful memory.

"You two were close?"

"That's against regulations, captain," Brogan tried to smile, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears, "but she was... special, to me. She... she felt the same. I... I don't want to watch Malcolm go the same way."

"What happened to Dyer?"

"He defected. Tried to betray us to the Syndicate in exchange for money. I shot him before he could sell us out," Brogan's tone hardened, "He died quick, and clean. Not like Jessica Malloy."

"The sooner we can get Malcolm to _Enterprise_ , the better his chances are," Archer assured her, "Dr. Phlox is the best at what he does, that's why he's on my ship."

"I've increased our speed to warp two point five," Brogan dashed the back of her hand across her eyes and turned away, not wanting to show raw emotion, "it's the best _Coinin_ can give us for now, though perhaps when Trip wakes up he might be able to squeeze a little more juice out of her. Are you sure you don't want to try to get some sleep, captain? You look done in."

"No more so than you," Archer replied, mildly, "I'm fine. I'll let Trip grab a few hours and then we can switch out – I'd rather sleep in the bunk than on the floor."

"It's going to be a long journey and autopilot can handle most of it," Brogan suppressed a yawn, and glanced at him in amusement, "you look like hell. I guess we all do... listen, it's not much of a bathroom, but there's a sink and a razor out back, and a crate full of civilian clothes in various sizes – there's bound to be something clean that will fit you if you want to freshen up a bit? Then you can take the controls and I'll do the same."

"Sounds good to me," Archer nodded, "won't be long..."


	15. Chapter 15

A wash, a shave and a clean change of clothes made Archer feel a little more civilised, though he wished he could remove the tattoos from his arms. He settled for pulling on a blue hooded sweater over the baggy tee-shirt he'd selected, along with clean blue jeans. He kept his own boots, however, simply because they fitted. He left the bathroom and relieved Brogan from the controls, rubbing a hand over his jaw, pleased to be clean-shaven again for the first time in a week. Trip, Reed and D'Arcy were all asleep, the first two in bunks and the latter stretched out on the floor, wrapped in a couple of blankets, head pillowed on his jacket. Archer checked their course heading and speed, also reviewing the long-range scans to ensure they would not have any surprises. He set a proximity alert in case anything did enter their range, and calculated that they were some 104 hours away from _Enterprise_ at their current speed – just over four days. T'Pol had been under orders to maintain position, keeping the crew on standby. All they knew was that the captain, Lt. Reed and Cmdr. Tucker were off-ship on a mission. They would wait as long as they needed to.

Brogan returned wearing plain black jeans and a fitted black roll-neck sweater with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Without her weapons, utility belt and trench coat, she looked somehow smaller; tall, slim and muscular, but not particularly feminine. Her long, dark hair had been swept up into a simple ponytail, exposing a small tattoo of a black dragon on her neck. She dropped into the co-pilot's chair and yawned, shaking her head.

"God, this is going to be a long trip," she sighed, staring out of the cockpit at the stars, "I just hope _Coinin_ is up to it. Bless her... she's got me out of some scrapes but she's just not built for distance interstellar flight."

"It's an unusual name for a ship," Archer commented, idly, "What does it mean?"

"It's Gaelic," Brogan twitched a quick smile, "it means 'little wolf'. I named her, and the _Chanteloup._ That's French – literally, _chante_ means 'song' and _loup_ is 'Wolf'... so _Chanteloup_ means 'wolf song' or 'song of the wolf'. Damn, I loved that ship."

"I'm sorry," Archer said, sincerely, "you've... you've lost a lot, leaving Outpost '66."

"Nothing I'll miss too much," Brogan shrugged, "it's just a shame I had to leave my favourite guitar behind. I just hope Harris doesn't try to send me back. He likes to have at least one agent in any significant human port or colony, just to keep tabs on things. He'll probably at least try to get Julian to go back, but he hates it even more than I do."

"You'd both be welcome on my ship," Archer said, honestly, "Harris can't touch you there – and if he did try to contact you, you'd report it straight to me, understood? There are no secret pasts on my ship – I've already been through that once."

"Understood," Brogan nodded, soberly, "thank you, sir. I'd be willing to take on any role – anything to get out of Section 31. Just... don't make me chef. My cooking's bloody terrible."

Archer laughed, as Brogan grinned, wickedly.

"Okay, we'll keep you out of the galley," Archer promised, amused.

"No secret pasts, huh?" Brogan commented, her eyes bright with mischief, "Well, I bet he didn't tell you about the time we had to go to a brothel to meet up with a contact..."

"Malcolm? In a brothel?"

"Yeah, he got propositioned by this bloody mountain of an Orion who said he liked – and I quote – 'pretty little human boys'. Have you ever met an Orion? Yes? Then you'll know – they're from a high gravity planet and the men are just these massive slabs of solid muscle, an Orion male could pound you flat with one hand without breaking a sweat. They make D'Arcy look tiny! Anyways, this Orion, he tried to, well, touch Malcolm, thinking he was, ah, part of the merchandise, you see, and Malcolm had the guy knocked spark out on the floor in less than thirty seconds. I couldn't lift a finger to help; I was laughing too much at the time!"

Archer snorted in amusement, shaking his head; "I bet he could tell some equally embarrassing stories about you..."

"Yeah, probably," Brogan admitted, with a smile, "but he's too much of a gentleman. And such a prude! Bless him..."

They rambled on in idle conversation, Brogan curiously probing Archer for more details about the _Enterprise_ ; her crew, her mission, life aboard the ship – in the depths of the questioning, Archer detected a quiet, desperate longing – a desire to belong somewhere, to be oneself, and to have genuine friends and colleagues rather than a life of pretence and intrigue. He found himself warming to the lieutenant the more they talked. The bottle of ale they drank each may have helped, but Brogan, unlike Reed, was a talkative storyteller, coupled with a quick wit and a ready laugh, if a little irreverent of rank and circumstance.

The hours dragged by, and eventually, Archer found his exhaustion beginning to overtake him, and he decided it must be time to wake Trip and take a turn in the bunk. He asked if Brogan wanted to get some sleep; she declined, saying that she had taken a stimulant and would be fine for another few hours. He shook his head in mild disapproval but let it slide, too tired to argue the sensibility of that course of action. He gently roused Trip, who groused a little at being woken up, but readily conceded the bunk when Archer told him he had been asleep for six hours already. Archer told him where to find a razor and clean clothes, and then climbed into the warm bunk. He was asleep before he had even consciously registered how comfortable it was to be lying down at long last.

* * *

Pain and nausea dragged Malcolm Reed back to reluctant consciousness. He coughed, choked, and gagged, retching slightly, but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up. Coughing, he tried to draw in a breath, but a convulsion ripped through him and he groaned in sick agony.

"Easy, mate, easy," said a gentle voice from somewhere above him, "this'll help, just breathe through it, come on love. You'll be alright."

The _pop-hiss_ of a hypo-spray sounded softly, and Reed gulped in a few quick breaths as his stomach slowly settled a little, at least taking the edge of the nausea. He tried to move, but pain shivered through his muscles and he groaned again, twisting slightly on the bunk, trying to find a comfortable position, but every nerve was on fire. A cool pair of hands enveloped his left hand, holding it tightly, and he returned the firm grip, anchoring himself back in reality, trying to shake off his feverish confusion.

"Brogan?"

"Yeah, it's me," one hand remained holding his, the other gently touched his forehead, brushing back his hair, and he almost groaned with relief at the coolness of her touch, "I hope you don't mind, but I've given you a shave. The bearded pirate look doesn't suit you."

"Thanks..." Reed's voice sounded rough and raspy even to his own hearing, and the hand on his forehead rested gently against his cheek for a moment. It felt wonderfully cold, and he could not help a slight sigh of relief.

"Oh, sweetheart," her voice was soft, low, and slightly sorrowful, "you're burning up..."

He blinked, finally managing to open his eyes, and he focussed on her face. Her grey-green eyes were clouded with concern, and he tried to raise a reassuring smile, but only really managed a grimace.

"It's... it's not as bad as it looks," he wheezed, through gritted teeth, "it... it could get a lot worse."

They both knew it was, indeed, going to get a lot worse, and Brogan glanced away quickly, before meeting his gaze again, offering him a small smile.

"Your friend Trip is a piece of work, isn't he?" she said, conversationally, absently stroking a hand through Reed's hair in a comforting gesture, "He's already managed to squeeze an extra point two warp speed out of the engines, that's above her supposed upper limit, and, oh man, have you seen his backside? If he gave me half a chance, I'm tellin' you, Mal, I'd smack him all around the..."

"Stop, stop, I don't want to know," Reed groaned a slight laugh, holding up his left hand to cut her off, "God, I can't believe we're going to let you loose on the _Enterprise_ – 81 humans, a Vulcan, and a Denobulan, Lord knows what will happen. Do you have any idea how hard I've worked on building up the prissy Brit image?"

"You don't have to work at it, you've always been a prissy Brit," Brogan snorted, amused, "because you're a pansy-arsed Southerner. Those of us with Northern blood are a totally different breed. Say, did you mention a Denobulan? Have you ever met any Denobulan women? Good grief, those girls know how to show you a good time..."

"You're terrible," Reed moaned, but smiled as he did so, "I've still not forgotten that time you..."

He broke off, coughing, and winced, pressing his left hand against his chest as he wheezed, coughing again in a futile attempt to clear his lungs. Brogan quickly crossed to a storage cupboard, returning with an armful of pillows and a bottle of water. She silently helped him to take a drink, waiting for the fit to subside. On the opposite bunk, Archer stirred, but did not awaken. Brogan helped Reed to sit up slightly, stuffing a couple of pillows behind his back and head in an effort to ease his breathing. Exhausted, Reed could only nod his thanks. Brogan gave him a tiny smile, and then touched his blistered, swollen right hand.

"Can you feel that?" she asked, softly.

He shook his head, too tired and winded to speak. She gently touched his arm, moving her fingers up an inch or so each time, until he winced when she made contact with an area mid-way up his forearm. She sighed, and with extreme care, she lifted his arm at the wrist and slid two pillows underneath his shoulder and arm, supporting the injury as carefully as possible. Feeling a little more comfortable, Reed muttered his thanks, his eyelids already drooping again. Brogan favoured him with another smile, and leaned down.

"Get some sleep, love," she whispered in his ear, "we'll all be here when you wake up."

He was already gone, drifting back into feverish unconsciousness. A tear broke free and tracked down Brogan's cheek, and she dashed it away with her hand, angry with herself for showing weakness. Stealing a quick glance at Archer to ensure he was still asleep, she leaned down, and gently kissed Reed's cheek, pressing her face against his, appalled by the heat emanating from him. Another tear escaped and this time she did nothing to wipe it away. She sat up slowly and stared blankly towards the cockpit, watching the stars streak past as the autopilot guided them closer to the haven of safety known as _Enterprise_. She sniffed, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and drew in a deep breath, steeling herself and clamping down on her emotions. A slight movement behind her made her jump to her feet even as a hand gently touched her shoulder; instinct had her turning in a defensive stance even as D'Arcy snatched his hand away and looked apologetic.

"Sorry," he said, quietly, "didn't mean to startle you. You okay?"

"Yeah... yeah," she nodded, a little too quickly, and then said, with forced cheerfulness; "It's not me I'm worried about."

D'Arcy cast a glance down at the unconscious Reed, his expression twisting into a grimace; "You know it's gonna kill him, boss..."

"Don't go there, Julian."

"I'm just sayin'; if it were me... I'd want it over quick."

"Don't you even think it," Brogan stood up, her tone growling out a warning, "he's going to make it. We're not that far from _Enterprise._ Malcolm's tougher than he looks. He'll make it."

"He's dead weight, boss – we don't have enough supplies to last us, and the air and water recyclers are only meant to support two people on a short journey, not five on a long haul..."

"You fuckin' dare suggest what I think you're about to say and I'll stuff you out of an airlock, _Ensign_ ," Brogan snarled, keeping her voice low, mindful of the two sleeping men, "you fuckin' watch me."

"Just sayin', boss," D'Arcy held his hands up but did not look apologetic, "you're in charge."

"I think you'll find Captain Archer is in charge, and Commander Tucker outranks me," Brogan replied, dryly, as her temper receded, "you and I are the juniors here, Julian – you gotta get used to that, and following orders, if you want to take a berth on _Enterprise_. It's not going to be like Section 31 anymore."

"If you say so – _Lieutenant_ ," D'Arcy shrugged, turned, and walked away, sitting down on a crate with his back to her, suddenly engrossed in taking apart and cleaning one of their disruptors.

Brogan sighed, and then jumped slightly as Trip appeared, crawling out of the engine access hatch. He glanced up at her and raised his eyebrows, obviously reading something in her expression, glancing at Reed in concern.

"Everything okay?" Trip asked, worriedly.

"Fine," Brogan deliberately tried to lighten her tone, "hey, you fancy a coffee? I think there's a few self-heating flasks around here somewhere..."

"Sounds great," Trip smiled, a little sadly, "we're all worried about him... he'll be okay. Malcolm's tough."

"Yeah," Brogan said again, though with less certainty, "how are you getting on?"

"Just tinkerin', really," Trip shrugged, "it passes the time..."

Brogan fetched coffee, and they took seats in the pilot's and co-pilots chairs, simply because they were the most comfortable places to sit rather than out of any navigational necessity. They exchanged odd bits of small talk as Trip described a few of the upgrades he was making. He, too, looked much better after a shave and a change of clothes, having opted for blue jeans and a baggy cream sweater that was a size too big but oddly suited him. Brogan stretched in her chair with catlike grace, yawning.

"My God, I'm knackered," she grumbled, "I'm getting too old for this shit. The pick-me-ups just don't work the way they used to."

"Those things sound awful."

"They are. They're also brilliant, depending on your point of view," Brogan grinned, "Captain Archer's been telling me about the _Enterprise_. She sounds like an amazing ship."

"She is," Trip smiled, proudly, "Starfleet's first warp five capable engine. I'll give you a tour of engineering some time if you like?"

"I'd love to," Brogan agreed, with genuine enthusiasm, her eyes shining, "I also understand she's fitted with plasma cannons – I've heard of them, but I've never seen one in action – the maximum blast yield is incredible!"

"Not you too," Trip snorted, "I thought having one trigger-happy Brit aboard was enough. D'you know, on the first test fire, Malcolm blew a hole the size of Texas in an asteroid thanks to an accidental overload? I think that was the happiest day of his life."

"Sounds awesome," she grinned back, "I'd love to see that."

"Get Mal to show you the logs, I think he kept all of the recorded data on file," Trip said, with an amused smirk, "Damn, this coffee's awful...!"

"You get used to it."

"Hopefully I won't have to," Trip finished off the dregs, and tossed the empty canister into the crate they were using to store waste material for recycling, "well, I'm gonna go carry on – I figure I can divert more power from non-essential systems, and if I reinforce a few of the intermix relays we might be able to push this baby up to warp two point eight."

"Sounds great – good luck," Brogan nodded to him, "I think I'll snatch a catnap for a while. Wake me if anything happens, okay?"

"Will do," Trip assured her.

The engineer disappeared into the back engine compartment once more; Brogan put her feet up on his vacated chair, crossed her legs and snuggled down into her seat, falling into a light, fitful doze, as the _Coinin_ doggedly continued on her slow but steady course.


	16. Chapter 16

The next time Reed regained consciousness; it was to absolute silence in the shuttle. He lay still for a few moments, trying to get his breath and his bearings, even as his left hand delved into his jeans pocket beneath the blanket, and his fingers closed around the hypo-spray of stimulants and painkillers. He knew it would be a stupid move to take a dose, but he couldn't cope with this permanent exhaustion and mental fog. Slipping out the slim cylinder, he deliberately drew in as deep a breath as he could, and injected it straight into his neck. His heart rate increased immediately, artificially boosted, as he gasped in a few quick breaths, coughing, wheezing and trying to get his respiration under control. Agony flared through his upper right arm, shoulder and neck, making him gasp, triggering further coughing. He tried to sit up to relieve the breathlessness, but then there was a strong arm behind his back, holding him up, as another hypospray delivered him further medication; he felt the pain ebb away to a tolerable level even as his breathing evened out. He frowned, feeling something wet on his face. Confused, he raised his left hand, and the fingers came away stained with blood. He stared at it in confusion, until he finally realised that his nose was bleeding.

"God, Malcolm," the voice and distinctive Southern drawl could only have belonged to a certain engineer, "here, use this..."

A towel was pressed into his left hand and he gratefully used it to wipe away the offending red stain. He sniffed a few times, satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, even as Trip eased him back to rest on the pillows. Reed managed to raise a ghost of a smile.

"Thanks," he said, hoarsely, still feeling his heart thumping slightly in response to the stimulant, "sorry."

"What the hell for?" Trip grunted, "You saved my life, remember? Twice – so you're allowed to bleed on me a bit."

Reed managed a dry chuckle and glanced around; Archer was sitting at the pilot's seat, checking a few readings; Brogan was lying on her stomach on the other bunk, face down and fast asleep. D'Arcy was in the co-pilot's chair with his feet up on the console, apparently dozing.

"How long...?" Reed tried to ask, but his voice caught in his parched throat, triggering another small coughing fit.

Trip shushed him and held up a bottle of water, helping him to take a drink, as the engineer spoke; "About 12 hours since you were last awake. I've pushed the engines up to warp two point eight but I can't push any harder or we'll blow out something vital. We're still a good two days away from the _Enterprise_ though..."

Trip gave him a doubtful look, and Reed patted the back of his hand gently; "Don't worry, Mr Tucker, I'm not going anywhere."

"You'd best not," Trip warned him, with a dry smile, "Who the hell else is going to back me up when I pick disaster films for Movie Night?"

Reed tried to laugh, choked, and coughed again. This time he could not stop, and Trip reacted with alarm, quickly helping him to sit upright and supporting him as Reed fought for breath.

"Steady, Malcolm, steady, c'mon, little breaths, that's it, c'mon..."

Trip gently patted his back reassuringly; Archer, alerted by his officer's distress, quickly crossed over from his chair, as Reed finally managed to draw in a thin, shaky breath. D'Arcy glanced over his shoulder but then turned away again; apparently content to leave the two other men to tend to their colleague. Shuddering with the pain, breathlessness and exertion, Reed felt himself being lowered back onto the bed, as Trip used the towel to wipe away the blood he only just realised he'd been coughing up. The stimulant in his system barely prevented him from passing out; he twitched feebly, muttering incoherently as he tried to fight his way back to consciousness. There was a hand pressed briefly against his forehead, and the worried voice of the captain said; "He's burning up; is there anything we can do to bring his fever down?"

Trip thought he heard D'Arcy mutter something like; "Shove him out the airlock," but when the engineer looked up in annoyance D'Arcy was apparently engrossed in one of the readouts on the console in front of him. Trip frowned but said nothing, not certain the ensign had actually spoken. He grabbed a towel, tearing it into strips as he crossed to the tiny bathroom. Soaking the ragged bits of towel under the tap, he wrung out most of the water and then went back to Archer. The captain was sitting on the edge of Reed's bed, worry written in the lines of his face as the armoury officer mumbled something under his breath, coughing feebly, shivering and sweating at the same time. Archer took one of the proffered towels, using the dampened cloth to gently wipe the sweat from Reed's face, then folding it and draping it over his forehead.

"Malcolm? Can you hear me?"

Reed gasped in a breath, meeting his eyes; "Y... yessir..."

"Good," Archer offered him a reassuring smile, "stay with us, Malcolm, that's an order."

Reed managed a ghost of a smile and a tiny nod, shivering slightly. Trip fetched another blanket from their supplies. On the opposite bunk, Brogan stirred and raised her head, staring at him sleepily.

"Everything okay?" she mumbled, blinking at him and rubbing her eyes.

Trip attempted a smile as he said; "Yeah, fine – just grabbing another blanket for Mal."

"His fever's up, then."

"Yeah..."

"Shit," Brogan glanced across at the other bed, and Archer met her gaze, his expression grim, nodding in agreement with her sentiment, "D'Arcy! What's our ETA?"

"Fifty-three hours," came the brusque reply, "we're running too hot though – and with too many people. Our air recyclers can't keep up and carbon dioxide levels are climbing."

"I thought it was getting stuffy in here," Brogan stretched and yawned, as Trip collected a blanket and Archer stood, allowing the engineer to carefully drape the covering over Reed.

"Anything you can do to speed us up, Trip?" Archer asked.

"I've done everything I can, Jon," Trip replied, with a sigh, "the truth is we're taking a short hop shuttle built for two people on a deep space long distance cruise with five people aboard – she's just not designed to take the pressure we're puttin' on her systems. We're goin' as fast as we can. "

He adjusted the blanket covering Reed; the other man blinked at him, fighting to stay awake. Trip shook his head slightly; "Get some sleep, Mal. It'll help the time pass quicker – we'll be back on _Enterprise_ before you know it."

Archer quietly watched as the armoury officer slowly drifted back into fevered unconsciousness, before turning towards the ensign at the helm.

"Do we have enough oxygen to make it to _Enterprise_?"

"Barely," D'Arcy grunted, tapping a few controls, "we'd be better off with one less member, but we should make it. Air's gonna get pretty thin, though."

"We'll be fine," Brogan replied, firmly, "Julian, reduce the gravity to point seven five gees and lower the lighting to emergency back-up levels, and then divert the power to the O2 pumps. That should help a little, and we'll all lose a few pounds to boot."

D'Arcy obeyed, and Archer felt the shift as the gravity lightened, and the lights dimmed down. Blinking quickly, his eyesight soon adjusted, and he was soon able to focus again. Brogan yawned again and stood up, stretching.

"I'm done with the bunk if anyone wants to get some sleep? Julian, I think it must be your turn."

"No chance," D'Arcy gave a dry chuckle, "I just took a pick-me-up, should keep me going for the next few hours or so."

"I'm not convinced those things are a good idea," Archer said, authoritatively, "you may be used to them in covert ops, but not on my ship, understood? This has to stop – proper sleep and no stimulants stronger than caffeine, got it?"

"Of course, captain," Brogan nodded, smoothly, "we're just trying to get you home as best we can... it stops now. You got that, Julian?"

"Yeah," grunted the ensign, reluctantly.

"Julian!"

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir, won't happen again, sir!"

Archer glanced at the ensign but could not tell if the man was being genuinely contrite or subtly sarcastic. Brogan sighed, shook her head and shrugged, "Well, that's that, then..."

She picked up a self-heating coffee canister and popped it open, taking a quick swig, pulling a face at the bitter taste; "Ugh. Can't wait for a decent cup of tea. I hate this swill."

"Tell me about it," Trip grinned, opening one for himself, and passing one to Archer, "I'm looking forward to a decent shower, a change of clothes and a hot meal. Never thought of _Enterprise_ as a luxury liner before, but she'll be heaven compared to what we've been through."

Archer wordlessly hummed his agreement, sitting down on the bunk vacated by Brogan. Trip was already sat on a cargo container, so Brogan perched carefully on the bed beside Reed, careful not to disturb the sick and injured man. She picked up one of the damp towels, absently dabbing sweat from his face as he twitched and mumbled, lost in feverish nightmares. Absently, she gently combed her hand through his hair in a soothing gesture. She had not failed to notice that his hair was beginning to thin, falling out in places, as the radiation poisoning permeated his system. She replaced the damp cloth on his forehead, and sighed. It was still far too far to _Enterprise_...


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Again, I do not own the rights to the songs used in this chapter, the copyright belongs with the writers and artists, including Mary Thompson "Charley's Across the Sea", the technically out of copyright "Greensleeves" reputedly composed by King Henry VIII, and Nightwish "Dead Boy's Poem".

* * *

Time passed slowly aboard the tiny shuttle, and conversation dwindled as the occupants simply ran out of things to say. They took it in turns between eating, sleeping, manning the controls and keeping a vigil over Reed. It seemed that Archer, Trip and Brogan had come to an unspoken arrangement that one of them should sit with him at all times, administering painkillers and medication at appropriate intervals, talking to him while he was conscious and watching over him while he was not. D'Arcy seemed content to leave them to it and Archer charitably attributed this to the fact that the ensign did not know the lieutenant well and was therefore leaving him to the care of his friends. Archer could see the ensign's loyalty to Brogan, though it was slightly galling that D'Arcy would glance to Brogan for confirmation every time Archer asked him a question or gave him an order. Archer was sure that this would pass, however, once the ensign was back in the disciplined command structure of a Starfleet ship rather than lost in the savage, independent world of deep undercover work. Trip had voiced his distrust of the ensign but Archer had shushed him, pointing out that D'Arcy was probably struggling to readjust and would need time.

Lying on the spare bunk, Archer stared at the ceiling, as sleep evaded him. The truth was he was seriously worried about their situation and their chances. The air was becoming noticeably thin and it was harder to breathe. This, of course, made things worse for Reed; Archer could hear him wheezing softly, struggling for every breath. The sounds of his suffering just made the Captain's heart ache, especially in the knowledge that the injury had been incurred saving the life of his best friend. Reed had known exactly what the weapon would do to him if it hadn't killed him outright but he had nonetheless reacted and saved Trip's life. Trip himself was currently in the engine compartment tinkering with the ship systems; Archer suspected the engineer had no real hope of making any difference, but it just gave him something to do instead of sitting around worrying and blaming himself. D'Arcy was sitting in the pilot's chair, feet up on the console, typing on a data PADD, presumably a letter to family or some sort of log entry. Brogan was sitting beside Reed, offering what comfort she could, singing softly under her breath. Archer, unable to sleep, rolled onto his side but kept his eyes closed, content to simply listen to the song. Her voice was soft and lilting, emphasising her unusual accent.

"Sadly, ah sing, for me sweetheart's away; ower the sea, he's been many a day... many a day he's been parted from me, leavin' us grievin' for him on the sea..." Brogan sang, softly, murmuring; "Bonny bright moon! Send Charley to me; make his path leet, an' safe on the sea; shine on ye stars, and sparkle as free; Charley's across the sea...!"

Archer made a mental note to ask the lieutenant where she came from. He suddenly realised that for all Brogan talked, she actually said very little, preferring to tell stories than divulge any real information about herself.

"...Often, me heart will so mournfully beat; waitin' to watch for the moon's bonny leet; watchin' the stars, for ah've nay thowts 'a sleep, without they're a-glistenin', as bright on the deep... Bonny bright moon! Send Charley to me; make his path leet, an' safe on the sea; shine on ye stars, and sparkle as free; Charley's across the sea...!"

The song was unfamiliar but sounded old, to Archer's ear; the song of a woman dreaming of her lover, out on the oceans of Earth, back when such travel was even more dangerous than the deep space explorations currently undertaken by the _Enterprise_ and her bold crew.

"...Often ah've thought, in the long weary neet, the moon an' the stars will keep Charley reet... withoot them I fancy, an' dread there's a storm, an' Charley's in danger, nay more he'll return... Bonny bright moon! Send Charley to me; make his path leet, a safe on the sea; shine on ye stars, and sparkle as free; Charley's across the sea...!"

Archer found himself thinking of Earth; he had little family to speak of and a few friends he wrote to occasionally, but he wondered just how many loved ones were back on Earth thinking of their kith and kin on _Enterprise,_ separated by thousands of light-years, praying that their friend, lover or family member were safe. A knot formed around his heart as he thought of Reed's parents and their frosty relationship with their son, and the grief he still felt over his own father's death. He wondered about contacting Reed's parents on their return to _Enterprise_ to inform them of their son's injury, and then, sickened, he realised that he could not, because to do so would mean committing an egregious breach of confidentiality.

"...Shine on, bright moon, both radiant and warm; keep Charley from danger, keep him free from harm, an' brighten his pathway, so wild on the sea, an' send back me sweetheart, me Charley to me..." Brogan murmured, softly, "Oh, bonny bright moon! Send Charley to me; make his path leet, an' safe on the sea; shine on ye stars, and sparkle as free; Charley's across the sea...!"

There was a moment of silence, and then a low mutter, and Brogan gave a slight laugh; "Oh, don't be daft, love. I've nowt better to do than sit here an' hold yer hand anyhow."

Startled, Archer realised that Reed must actually be conscious, and he suddenly felt embarrassed to have been listening in, despite the fact that he could not help their close proximity. He rolled over again, onto his other side, facing the wall, attempting to offer at least some privacy to the two old friends, though he could not help but overhear at least Brogan's part of the conversation. Reed's voice was simply too weak for him to hear, and that pained the captain more than he cared to admit.

"Aw, sweetheart..." Brogan's voice was soft with affection, "don't you worry about it. You're gonna be fine, you'll see. It's not too long now... aye... oh aye, I'll tell 'em... shush, try to save your breath, love. I can do more than enough noise-makin' for the both of us, now, um, let's see, um..."

She hummed a bar or two of a familiar tune, though Archer could not quite place it until she sang the opening verse; "Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously; for I have loved you so long, delighting in your company... Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight; Greensleeves was my heart of gold, and who but my lady Greensleeves?"

The melody was very old, haunting and sad; Archer recognised the tune vaguely as being a classical piece; if memory served it had been written by an old English King to his intended, though Archer's knowledge of history did not extend any further than that.

"Alas, my love, that you should own, a heart of wanton vanity; so I must meditate alone, upon your insincerity..."

"Do you have to sing that crap?"

D'Arcy's irritated voice cut roughly across the melodic tune, almost making Archer jump.

"Beats singing about drinking and sex all of the bloody time," Brogan snorted, making Archer smile to himself, as he recalled the suggestive nature of her act at the bar they had met her in; "it's just somethin' to pass the time."

"I don't know why you're botherin'," D'Arcy grumbled, "He ain't gonna make it, boss – he's already past it and we're still over thirty hours away from this magical mystery ship that's supposed to save our asses, if it's even there. You know damn well we're all done for if we don't start saving air, water an' supplies... it could be weeks before another ship picks up our signal..."

"Say one more word, Julian, and I swear to God I'll break your fuckin' neck and put you out the airlock," Brogan snarled, though still keeping her voice low, thinking that Archer was asleep, "Up 'til now it's just been you an' me an' I get that, but long before now it was Malcolm Reed that had my back and I've always got his. If Malcolm trusts in these blokes and their _Enterprise_ then I'm all in for everythin' I've got. Captain Archer's promised us a berth on _Enterprise_ and I believe him. You just gotta give him a chance to prove it."

"What the hell's a straight-laced Captain gonna do with a pair of Section 31 rejects?" D'Arcy said, bitterly, though also keeping his voice quiet, "it all sounds too good to be true to me, boss. I'll believe it when I see it."

"You'll see it," Brogan said, sounding so fiercely convinced that Archer's resolve to keep them both on _Enterprise_ instantly doubled, "you'll believe it, and you'll appreciate it, and you'll not say another bloody word against it, understood? Same as you I don't know these other folks, but unlike you I do know Malcolm Reed and we've followed each other to hell and back more times than I can count. I'll see him back to _Enterprise_ even if it kills me."

Archer lay as still as he could, hardly daring to breathe; until he heard D'Arcy let out a defeated sigh; "Okay, you're the boss. I still reckon we'll get dumped on the nearest Vulcan ship, shipped back to Earth and we'll be back in '66 before Harris has had a chance to whip our asses for desertion, though."

"It won't happen," Brogan said, softly, "just... just fly the damn ship, D'Arcy..."

Silence fell for a moment, broken only by a feeble, wet coughing sound; Archer winced inwardly – Reed was suffering, and there was not a damn thing that he could do about it, save to lie uselessly on the bunk pretending to be asleep so as not to cause any awkwardness. Brogan was humming again, a sad, soft tune; when she sang, the words were odd and disjointed, strange half-concepts strung together in a dream-like manner but with an undercurrent of sadness so strong that Archer sensed in the song a feeling of grief and loss. It was almost overwhelming.

"Born from silence, silence full of it; perfect concert, my best friend... So much to live for, so much to die for; if only my heart had a home... Sing what you can't say, forget what you can't play; hasten to drown in two beautiful eyes. Walk within my poetry, this dying music, my love letter to nobody... Never sigh for a better world, it's already composed, played and told. Every thought the music I write, everything a wish for the night..."

Brogan did not sing with any great skill, but the feeling in her tone more than made up for any lack of technical ability. As if unable to help himself, D'Arcy was tapping out a beat on the edge of the navigational console with his fingers, a steady, drumming rhythm, obviously playing along to the backing music only the two of them could hear.

"Wrote for the eclipse, wrote for the virgin, died for the beauty, the one in the garden... created a kingdom, reached for the wisdom; failed in becoming a god... Never sigh for a better world, it's already composed, played and told. Every thought the music I write... Everything a wish for the night..."

The song trailed off, though D'Arcy kept up the drum beat rhythm for a few moments, until he spoke again, this time his voice much lighter and friendlier.

"Hey, boss – what're the chances there's a drum kit on this _Enterprise_? Reckon I'll be able to keep playing?"

"Well, if they ain't got one, we'll make one, or I'll requisition you one the next time we're near a supply ship," Brogan sounded amused, "hey, if we're really lucky we'll be able to rustle up a keyboardist and a guitarist and then we'll have an act again!"

There was a low mutter, and Brogan laughed at whatever Reed had said; "You stay out of this – the feather fan was a one-time thing a punter paid for and I'm never doing that again for love nor money!"

"Feather fan?" D'Arcy repeated, sounding incredulous, "Boss, I gotta ask – and don't take this the wrong way – was this kit on, or kit off?"

"I refuse to answer that question," Brogan sounded amused and embarrassed in equal measure, "Malcolm Reed, I swear to God, if you ever tell anyone that story, I'll..."

Whatever threat she was going to utter died on her lips as Reed started coughing, and then could not stop or draw breath.

"Shit," Brogan swore, softly, "come on, Malcolm, don't crap out on me now, we're so nearly there..."

Throwing off his pretence of sleep, Archer jerked upright on the bunk, blinking quickly to refocus and glancing around. He saw Brogan holding Reed upright, supporting him as he coughed wetly into the towel she held. Archer jumped off the bunk and snatched up a depleted medical kit; selecting the right hypo-spray he delivered the injection straight into Reed's neck. After a few moments, the younger man finally stopped coughing; he managed to give the captain a bleary, grateful look, and then his eyes rolled back as his body surrendered to unconsciousness. Archer caught him; easing him back down onto the pillows that supported him. He flinched at the sight of blood on Reed's lips; Brogan wiped it away quickly and then shoved the soiled towel into a waste disposal container.

"Thanks," she said, quietly, not meeting Archer's gaze, "he's... he's not doing so great. Poor bastard..."

Her voice broke slightly and she swore, scowling, bringing a hand to her face; obviously hating to show emotion in front of the captain. He hesitated, and then laid his hand on her shoulder, comfortingly.

"Who don't you get some sleep, lieutenant?" he suggested, "you look like you need it. I'll keep an eye on Malcolm for a while."

"Thanks," Brogan nodded, reluctantly, "please – wake me if... well, wake me if anything happens."

"Will do," Archer promised.

He watched her cross to the bunk and lie down, turning towards the wall, as he settled himself on the edge of Reed's bed. He just hoped the armoury officer could hold on a bit longer.


	18. Chapter 18

The next twenty-four hours crawled by. They were all cold; tired and hungry. The environmental support systems had been reduced to minimal to conserve their dwindling air supply; the cabin temperature was distinctly cold, their ration packs were exhausted and they had very few supplies left. Archer eventually found himself sitting in the pilot's chair with Trip beside him in the co-pilot's seat, each of them wrapped in a blanket and sharing the dregs of a bottle of whiskey.

"This is all too familiar," Trip drawled, averring to his previous venture in survival aboard shuttlepod one, "though right now I'd kill to have Malcolm standin' up an' arguin' with me about oxygen conservation."

"Uh-huh," Archer said, distantly, taking a sip from the bottle and handing it across to the engineer, "are we in range yet?"

"Not quite," Trip shook his head, "still a couple of hours before we can hope to get a signal through; you want me to start transmitting the distress beacon anyway, just in case?"

"Do it," Archer nodded, "even if _Enterprise_ doesn't pick it up, we're far enough from Outpost 66 that any ships in the area are more likely to be friendly than hostiles."

Trip tapped a few buttons and then nodded to himself; "Done. Hopefully Hoshi's listening out for us."

"I hope so," Archer agreed, staring out of the cockpit window.

Behind him, D'Arcy was asleep on the bunk; Brogan was sitting at the head of Reed's bed, gently stroking his hair and humming tunelessly, a simple, repetitive yet comforting gesture. Archer stood slowly, and went to root through their thinning supplies. They only had one medical kit left, and he picked it up with a sigh.

"Last one," he said, aloud, softly, "I... I think we'd best change the dressing again. After that there's nothing much else that we can do."

Brogan nodded but did not speak, as between the two of them they slowly and carefully unwrapped the bandages from around Reed's arm. Brogan inhaled sharply but said nothing; Archer grimaced and swore, softly. Beneath the bandages the skin of Reed's whole right arm was burned red and raw; the blisters had given way to peeling, weeping wounds that covered his right arm, neck, and chest. Archer sprayed them liberally with a disinfectant, before slowly and methodically padding and re-wrapping the wounds, taking particular care over the deep blast wound just above Reed's elbow. The armoury officer stirred and moaned in distress, but Brogan shushed him, gently running her long fingers through his thinning hair, murmuring reassurances into his ear.

"Steady, love, steady," Archer heard her whispering, "We'll be done in a minute, sweetheart, I promise."

Her use of endearments once again made Archer wonder how close the two had been, but it seemed that it was simply the way in which Brogan spoke – he had heard her call Trip 'hinny', 'darlin'' and 'my lovely' a couple of times and D'Arcy was always 'mate', 'handsome' or 'sunshine'; though to Archer she always showed a measure of respect to his rank, simply calling him 'captain' or, on one occasion, 'sir boss man'.

Archer swiftly tied off the last of the bandaging, and followed this up with a dose of medication designed to reduce the symptoms and numb the pain. Reed gasped a word of thanks, and Archer patted his good arm reassuringly.

"Just stay with us, Malcolm," Archer told him, "we're almost there – we're already trying to hail _Enterprise_ ; T'Pol will be along soon to pick us up."

"Aye, sir," Reed wheezed, exhausted, "I... I just..."

"Just get some sleep, love," Brogan interrupted him, gently, using a ragged cloth to gently dampen his forehead with cool water; despite the chill of the cabin temperature, Reed's fever was soaring and there was nothing they could do to control it.

Beneath her soothing touch, Reed leaned back into the pillows, drifting off to sleep. Archer nodded to her, and then headed back to the navigational console. Trip looked up at him, his face an open book of trepidation. Archer simply shook his head slightly, not trusting himself to speak. Trip drew in a deep, steadying breath, and gripped the near-empty whiskey bottle grimly.

"He'll make it," the engineer said, firmly, more to himself than to anyone else, "he has to. He'll make it."


	19. Chapter 19

The hours dragged past. Everyone had given up on any pretence at staying active or awake. Conversation had died to silence; the air was too thin to waste it on words. The life support systems were gradually failing as they poured all of their power into keeping the engines going. Wrapped in blankets, they huddled in situ for warmth; Trip and D'Arcy sat side by side on the spare bunk, sharing the last bottle of beer companionably with the air of men resigned to fate. Brogan sat on a cargo crate beside Reed's bed, staring blankly at the floor. Archer was dozing in the pilot's chair when a soft but persistent bleeping caught his attention and dragged him back to wakefulness.

"What's that?" D'Arcy raised his head, groggily.

"Um," Archer straightened in his chair, trying to shake off the cobwebs of cold-induced lethargy, "I... I think... I think we're being hailed!"

" _Enterprise_?" Trip's voice was laden with disbelief.

Archer flicked a switch and the relief that flared through him was so sharp he could scarcely breathe.

 _"_ _...Come in please. This is the_ U.S.S Enterprise _hailing unknown shuttle. Please identify yourselves,"_ Hoshi's voice was almost music to Archer's ears, _"Unknown shuttle, come in please. This is the_ U.S.S. Enterprise _hailing unknown shuttle. Please identify..."_

Archer flicked another switch, and spoke, his voice hoarse and cracking slightly.

" _Enterprise_ , this is Captain Archer – I am aboard the shuttle _Coinin,_ requesting emergency assistance, please respond."

 _"_ _Captain?"_ Hoshi sounded astonished, _"I'm patching you through to Sub-Commander T'Pol, sir, one moment..."_

 _"_ _Captain,"_ T'Pol's tone was as cool and unflappable as ever, _"We are changing course to rendezvous with you immediately. Are you in need of assistance?"_

"Yes," Archer hesitated, not knowing how much to say over an open comm. channel, "T'Pol, we have limited air and power reserves and a seriously injured officer aboard. I need Dr. Phlox to meet us in the shuttle bay immediately and to be prepared for full decontamination procedures. We'll need a gurney, but we'll carry it ourselves, and I want the corridors to sickbay cleared of all personnel, is that understood?"

 _"_ _Of course, captain – may I enquire as to the nature of the injury so that I may advise the doctor to be prepared?"_

"Radiation burns," Archer said, quickly, "minimal exposure and nobody else is showing symptoms, but we'll need to go through decontamination. We're pretty banged up but otherwise okay – the faster you can get here the better, T'Pol."

 _"_ _We are making all haste, captain,"_ the Vulcan responded, _"was your mission a success?"_

"We got what we went there for, T'Pol," was all Archer could say, "and we paid a very high price for it. I'm just concerned to ensure that price isn't too high."

 _"_ _I understand, captain – we have increased our speed, we should be within visual range to your starboard..."_

"I see you, T'Pol," Archer fought to keep the relief from overwhelming him even as exhaustion crept into his tone, "prep the shuttle bay and meet us there with Dr. Phlox. Archer out."

He reluctantly closed the channel so that he could turn his attention to the controls, but a hand at his shoulder stopped him. Brogan offered him a quick, apologetic smile.

"Captain," she said, softly, "why don't you let me take her in? You can be ready to greet your officers and see to Malcolm."

With a wordless nod, Archer slid across into the co-pilot's seat, allowing Brogan to take the main controls. She flexed her fingers, and then turned _Coinin_ smoothly towards the approaching _Enterprise_. Archer was left to gaze in awe as the graceful starship dwarfed the tiny shuttle, the bay doors opening invitingly, as Brogan expertly piloted them into the bay. Archer felt the pull of gravity as the shuttle set down; the bay doors closed, the deck re-pressurised and Trip was there, already pushing open the hatch. Archer stood as a welcome rush of air, warm, clean and fresh swept into the shuttle. Trip leapt down onto the deck, discarding his blanket and stretching appreciatively.

"Oh, God, it's good to be home," the engineer groaned.

"Agreed," Archer stepped down next to him, as the door to the bay opened, admitting T'Pol and Phlox, bearing between them a gurney, while Phlox also carried his medical kit, "down here, doctor!"

"Captain," the Denobulan quickly crossed over to them, "Sub-Commander T'Pol told me to expect radiation burns..."

"It's Malcolm," Archer led the doctor into the shuttle, "he was hit by an ionised particle beam weapon..."

"When did this happen?" Phlox stood beside Reed's bed, passing a scanner over the unconscious lieutenant, scowling at the readings, "this is extremely advanced..."

"At least..." Archer frowned, as he tried to do the mental arithmetic, "five, maybe six days ago... I've lost track of time."

"We need to get him to sickbay immediately," Phlox snapped the scanner shut, "Sub-Commander, the gurney, please!"

T'Pol stepped into the shuttle, to her credit barely flinching at the smell of the stale air and five unwashed humans living in close proximity for an extended period of time. She laid the gurney down, and between her, Archer and the doctor, they carefully lifted Reed onto it.

"Trip, D'Arcy; take Malcolm to sickbay immediately," Archer ordered.

The two men immediately moved to obey; T'Pol raised her eyebrow at D'Arcy but the ensign ignored her, concentrating on carrying out his orders. Phlox swept out of the shuttle, urging the two men to make haste.

"We need to get to sickbay," Archer could hear the worn exhaustion in his own tone, "first things first, I guess – Sub-Commander T'Pol, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Brogan – Lt. Brogan, T'Pol is First Officer and Science officer for the _Enterprise_."

To Archer's surprise, Brogan stood up from the navigation console, came to attention and raised her right hand, fingers separated in a perfect Vulcan salute.

"It's an honour, Sub-Commander," Brogan said, smoothly, though there was an edge of weariness in her voice, "I apologise for the smell in here... it cannot be pleasant for you."

"Greetings, Lieutenant," T'Pol returned the salute, "there is no need to apologise; it seems that your mission was not without incident, Captain."

"You can say that again," Archer snorted, "here; the Vulcan data PADD. Make arrangements to drop it off to the nearest Vulcan vessel for return to Earth – you're going to remain in command for the next few hours, T'Pol – at least until I've been through decon, eaten, slept, showered and requisitioned a clean uniform."

"Understood, Captain," T'Pol turned and stepped out of the shuttle, "I shall join you in sickbay as soon as I am able to."

"Thanks, T'Pol," Archer nodded to her, and then turned to Brogan, "Come on – it's this way – let's go see what's happening..."


	20. Chapter 20

As it happened, it was several hours before Archer was able to see and speak to Phlox or T'Pol. After spending some time in the decontamination chamber, the four of them were released by Ensign Cutler. She was unable to provide any information as to Reed's condition, but could only say that Phlox was with him, which assured Archer the lieutenant was, at least, still alive. He and Trip returned to their quarters to shower and sleep, while Cutler took care of finding temporary berths for Brogan and D'Arcy. When he awoke, Archer showered again, shaved, and pulled on a clean uniform. He looked at himself in the mirror; the tattoos still needed to be removed, but he looked and felt more like himself for the first time in a long time. At least his uniform hid most of the grotesque artwork covering his skin; there was nothing much he could do about the stylised spider crawling up his neck, however, and he knew Phlox had far more important things to do than worry about a few cosmetic procedures. He considered making his way to sickbay, but Cutler had made it very clear that the doctor would contact the captain as soon as there was anything to report.

Instead, he made his way to the mess hall, keen to find a decent meal and a cup of coffee. The few crewmembers he passed in the corridors nodded and stood aside respectfully; the majority of the crew still unaware as to the full details of their secret mission. The chances were that they would never know, though rumours abounded, especially as to why the Captain, Chief Engineer and Armoury Officer had all been seen in strange clothing, sporting weird tattoos and looking decidedly unsavoury.

The doors to the mess hall swished open smoothly, revealing a few off-duty crewmembers sitting around, relaxing and chatting. Archer almost smiled; it felt good to back amongst his crew and the more civilised life aboard the _Enterprise_ , which he saw in a whole new light compared to what he had experienced on Outpost 66.

"Jon! Over here!"

This time he did smile as he caught Trip's wave; he raised his hand in acknowledgement, collected a coffee and a tempting bowl of steaming hot chicken casserole, before crossing over to join the engineer and his companions; he was not surprised to see Ensign D'Arcy and Lieutenant Brogan sitting there, however, it was something of a shock to see them both in uniform. D'Arcy looked somehow younger and less intimidating; the muscular bulk was still there, but the uniform fit him well and he actually stood to attention as Archer approached.

"Relax, ensign, at ease," Archer waved his hand, with a smile, as they both sat down, "we don't stand on ceremony in the mess hall, everyone's here to relax."

"Amen to that," Brogan inclined her head; "good to see you looking like a captain, Captain."

"Likewise, Lieutenant," Archer grinned, tucking into his casserole with relish.

Brogan stared off out of the window, watching the stars streaking by. Archer had ordered T'Pol to resume their exploratory course, taking them as far from Outpost 66 as possible. The captain could see the worry in the lieutenant's expression, her usually unkempt hair tied back into a neat, regulation ponytail, exposing the tattoos on her neck. No doubt the two mysterious new arrivals would also be causing some stir around the ship.

"Any word on Malcolm?" Trip asked, eventually, "Cutler threw me out of sickbay when I went down there – apparently Phlox has been performing surgery all night and doesn't want to be disturbed by anyone."

"Nothing as yet," Archer shook his head, slowly, "I guess no news is good news... how are you guys settling in? Have you been assigned quarters yet?"

"It's strange being back in space again," Brogan admitted, "I've... I've put in a request to be allowed to berth aboard the _Coinin_ for now, Captain. Ensign D'Arcy is doubling up with Crewman Hoyes, but it seems there aren't any berths available for me at the moment, and I refused Ensign Cutler's offer to use Malcolm's quarters in the meantime."

"Granted, for now," Archer nodded, "If you're sure you'll be comfortable there?"

"I've lived in worse places, sir," Brogan smile was a little forced, and Archer realised that the lieutenant must be feeling as much of a fish out of water aboard _Enterprise_ as he had felt in Outpost 66.

"I want to keep my promise," Archer said, taking a sip of his coffee, "you're both welcome to take postings aboard _Enterprise_ if you want to stay. You'll be assigned roles and duty rosters – if that's what you want?"

"Thank you, Captain," Brogan nodded, "sir, I respectfully request assignment to the armoury – Lt. Reed does have seniority of rank over me, but I'm willing to accept a demotion in rank if necessary."

"That won't be necessary – we're in need of a replacement Beta shift supervisor since Lieutenant Foster transferred back to Earth, and you'll serve as Malcolm's second for bridge duties et cetera," Archer told her, "Ensign D'Arcy? Do you have any preferences on your assignment?"

The Ensign looked surprised to be asked, but wasted no time in responding; "Security, sir. Please."

"Granted," Archer nodded, finishing his casserole, and leaning back in his chair, "You'll probably be subject to a lot of curiosity but it's a good crew and you'll be made to feel welcome... we have regular Movie Nights, social events, there'll be opportunities for shore leave and chances to explore alien planets... I want you both to think of this ship as your home."

Brogan and D'Arcy exchanged a long look of unspoken communication, as Archer and Trip shared a quick, amused glance. The two junior officers looked overwhelmed. Archer was just trying to think of something reassuring to say, when the ship-wide communication system chirped to life.

 _"_ _Captain Archer, please report to sickbay immediately."_

Archer was at the nearest panel before he had consciously acknowledged the message.

"Archer here – I'm on my way."

He turned, and caught three pairs of eyes staring at him in askance. He held up his hand, reluctantly; "Stay here. I'll let you know what's happening as soon as I can."

Leaving the mess hall quickly, Archer all but ran to sickbay, slowing slightly as he reached the doors. He straightened his uniform and stepped inside, hoping he appeared more composed than he felt. His eyes immediately fell upon the one occupied bed; Dr Phlox stood nearby, his expression tired and grim.

"Captain," the doctor sounded almost angry, "Whatever weapon was used on Lieutenant Reed ought to be illegal. I have never seen such devastating trauma from a particle weapon."

"They are illegal," Archer sighed, "but Outpost 66 is an independent colony operating outside of the jurisdiction of Earth and Starfleet... how's he doing, doc?"

"I have him stabilised, I believe," Phlox's expression soften slightly, but his ice-blue eyes conveyed his concerns as much as his tone; "I have had to perform extensive tissue regeneration therapy along with a complete blood transfusion, coupled with extremely high doses of anti-irradiation drugs – Lt. Reed is lucky to be alive."

"What's the prognosis?" Archer asked, quietly.

Phlox drew in a deep breath; "Barring any complications, he should survive – to be honest I am extremely surprised that his lungs did not collapse. The cellular damage is extensive and will take some time to heal fully. I am continuing to synthesise replacement units of blood and maintaining a transfusion schedule to help remove the irradiated toxins from his system. I am keeping him in an induced coma to reduce the overall trauma and encourage the healing process. I cannot imagine that he will be fit for duty for several weeks."

"I know you're doing everything you can, doctor," Archer said, softly, "is there anything you need – anything we can do for him? I can set course straight back to Earth if there are facilities there that would assist you..."

"It is kind of you, captain, but not necessary," Phlox shook his head, "all Lt. Reed needs now is time and a little care. Now, if you don't mind – those tattoos really do not suit you, and I should like to hear more about the circumstances of Lt. Reed's injury... if you'll take a seat, we'll get to work..."


	21. Chapter 21

The weeks passed painfully for Malcolm Reed; at first he spent most of the time flitting between waking in pain, coughing and feverish, to restless unconsciousness. As the pain and other symptoms began to subside, he was plagued by persistent fatigue, weakness and sickness. Gradually, even these symptoms receded, and Phlox reluctantly allowed Reed to return to his quarters to rest there in peace, recuperating slowly, with twice daily visits to sickbay to monitor his progress. Eventually, these visits reduced to one per day, and then one every other day, as he gradually regained his strength, stability and stamina. Late one night, by ship's time, he found himself sitting alone in the mess hall, gazing out at the stars drifting by at low warp, contemplating whether or not the doctor and the captain might finally allow him to return to some light duties.

A mug of tea sat slowly cooling by his left hand, which rested casually on the table. His right arm still ached dully, as the nerves, muscles and skin gradually healed over the ugly wound. He still felt weak and washed out, despite the prolonged enforced period of rest, and with a mild flash of irritation he wondered if he would ever feel healthy again.

"You're still too skinny, you know."

Startled, he jumped slightly, almost knocking the tea to the floor. The newcomer laughed, sitting down beside him, companionably.

"Sorry – you were a million miles away. Didn't mean to make you jump."

"Yes you did," Reed grumbled, but managed a smile; "how are you settling in? I've heard things have been a bit... err... shaky."

"You can say that again," Brogan snorted, waving her own mug of tea dismissively, "It's okay really, everyone needs a bit of adjustment time, I guess. They don't know who the hell I am and it's not like I can tell 'em... D'Arcy's settled in really well though, he's been training with one of the security contingents, he's in his element and they all love him, except for during hand to hand training – he still kicks arse, bless him."

"What about you?"

"I've always been an undercover agent," Brogan shrugged, "it's... hard, you know? To adjust back to being around, well... civilised people."

"I heard what happened to crewman Novokovich," Reed suppressed a smile, as Brogan groaned.

"Oh, hell," she said, "I've apologised twenty times for that – he made me jump, that was all. I didn't think I'd hit him that hard... and then there was Ensign Singh, she actually blushed when I cussed a blue streak after burning my hand on a polarised relay circuit, and of all things reported me to the captain for conduct unbecoming! When I told him what I'd said I think he saw the funny side, though I don't think sub-commander T'Pol knew what half of the words meant... I think they're also both a bit surprised that I didn't want my tattoos removed. I guess I'm just too used to them..."

She trailed off, taking a mouthful of tea, and giving him a sideways glance; "I wasn't kidding, you know. You need to eat something – I've seen more meat on a butcher's apron."

He smiled and shook his head; "My appetite is lousy at the moment... I'll be okay though. I understand I've got you to thank for that, by the way – getting me back here, I mean."

"No more so than the captain, Trip or Julian," Brogan shrugged, noncommittally, leaning back in her chair, "how do you do it, Malcolm? How do you live in this sanitised floating tin can? I still have to sleep aboard _Coinin_ with a gun under my pillow to feel safe..."

"I spent six months doing the same in _Chanteloup_ back on Starbase One when I was first pulled out of deep cover to work on the ordinance schemes for the Warp Five project," Reed told her, quietly, "you'll adjust. Just give yourself some time. You were living in '66 for a bloody long time. D'Arcy was only there four months. It's bound to take you a while to readjust."

He took a sip of tea and then mischievously added; "Though I'd be grateful if you'd avoid concussing any other members of the crew in the process, it's not good for morale or productivity."

Brogan opened her mouth to protest, caught his expression, and then grinned, slumping back in her seat.

"Bastard," she muttered, affectionately, "I've gotta say, Mal – it's good to see you up and about. For a while there, I wasn't sure... didn't think you'd... you know..."

She let the sentiment hang unspoken as Reed rubbed his arm unconsciously, feeling the familiar ache from the damaged muscles. Phlox had been genuinely appalled by the nature of the weapon that had caused it, and Reed did not have the heart to tell him just how many people still died every year in and around Outpost 66 as a result of the horrific, archaic weapons.

"Captain Archer tells me there's going to be a special performance instead of a Movie Night this week," Reed said, conversationally, changing the subject quickly, "got anything interesting planned?"

"I swear, Malcolm, if you even mention that bloody feather fan dance...!"

Reed held his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling as Brogan shook her head, grinning.

"It was Trip's idea," she said, a slight flush creeping into her face, "he asked if we'd team up with a few musicians on board and do a live set instead of watching a film... we've had to scrounge around for instrumentalists, but we've found a few, and some other singers, a couple of performers – it's going to be an interesting talent night, I've heard some of the rehearsals. I've even managed to secure a few harder to find props and things, it'll be just like old times..."

There was a suggestive edge to her tone and Reed felt the blood drain from his face as she smiled mischievously.

"Oh, no – you didn't... you didn't tell anyone... especially not Trip..."

"I've said nothing, honest to God," she replied, smirking, "but I may have made a few requisition requests – honestly, it's amazing what this crew can put together when they put their minds to it, they're a talented, creative bunch, I'll give them that..."

"I haven't told anybody – not a soul – you know I hated it, my parents forced me... besides; I haven't, not for years..."

"I know, I know," it was Brogan's turn to hold her hands up, amused, "there's no pressure, mate, none at all. Just chill out – besides, I know your arm's still bad. Crikey, look at you; you've barely enough meat left on you to hold your bones together – I'm gonna grab a sandwich for each of us and you're gonna eat something, Mal, because you look like hell."

Reed sighed but did not protest as Brogan slipped away; Dr Phlox had been pestering him for several days to increase his calorie intake but Reed simply did not feel like eating. Still, he knew Brogan was even more relentless than Phlox, so when she presented him with a ham salad sandwich and a fresh mug of tea, he forced himself to eat some of it, at least enough to satisfy Brogan that he was not about to fade away to nothing. For a long time, they sat silently, side by side, staring at the stars, two old friends who were battle-worn and scarred, but companionable in the safety of the _Enterprise._ It was Brogan who eventually broke the silence.

"You know, that T'Pol has got an awfully nice bum, hasn't she?"


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: This chapter is almost long enough to be a standalone story in it's own right, but it kind of got away from me a bit! For the final time, I do not own any of the songs used in herein and the copyright belongs to the artists/performers, including Alicia Keys "Fallin", ELO's version of "Roll Over Beethoven" and Billy Joel "Piano Man".

* * *

Thursday night arrived, and the mess hall was transformed; the chairs were arranged in their usual Movie Night rows, but the projector and screen were gone, replaced by a raised dais to function as a stage. A backline had been provided – the crew had worked hard to rustle up kit including drums, a couple of guitars, an electric piano, a trumpet, a trombone and, of all things, a cello. The engineering team had excelled themselves to manufacture a couple of small amplifiers, while Hoshi had put in place a few microphones and had balanced the whole sound output system to perfection. Rehearsals had been run through the day, the mess hall strictly off-limits to anyone not involved in the performances, and even Captain Archer had joined in the preparations by permitting changes to the duty rosters to allow the artists extra time to practice their acts.

Trip had been invited to assume the role of host, which he delighted in. Wearing an outrageously bright Hawaiian shirt and stonewash blue jeans, he greeted each crewmember as they arrived; some were in uniform, just off shift or expecting to go on duty after the performance, others had dressed down for the occasion. Dr Phlox was there, fascinated and excited to see the demonstration of human musical talent. Even T'Pol had been persuaded to attend, to further her study of Earth culture. Archer arrived just as the rest of the audience were taking their seats; he took his reserved front row chair, between T'Pol and Lt. Reed; next to Reed was Phlox, and then Hoshi Sato and Travis Mayweather. Archer exchanged a murmured greeting with Reed; the lieutenant still looked too pale and too thin for the Captain's liking, but he seemed much healthier and his eyes were bright and alert as he spoke to Phlox, explaining what each of the instruments was on the stage, and how each could be played differently to produce harmonic sounds. Archer settled into his seat, nodding to T'Pol, and after a few minutes, Trip stepped up onto the stage. The mess hall lights dimmed, save for those over the stage, lighting the dais to make it the focal point of attention.

"Good evenin', ladies and gentlemen!" Trip announced, cheerfully, "I hope y'all enjoy this evenin' and the performances you're about to see. I always knew we'd got some serious talent aboard this ship – 'specially in engineerin', of course – but tonight's gonna prove it. We got music of all styles, we got some jokes, we got a juggler an' we got some good ol' fashioned dancin' – so, here we go. First up – Ensign Aimee Okinawa will be playing a classical cello selection!"

There was polite applause, and the ensign stepped up, took up her seat and her instrument, and played through several short pieces. Archer smiled to see T'Pol nod slightly in approval; classical string instruments clearly held appeal for the Vulcan. The acts that followed varied hugely in their content and success, but each one was met with cheers and uproarious applause as they concluded. At the interval, Chef served canapés and drinks, before the talent show resumed; Travis Mayweather performed an acrobatic display to cheers and whistles; Trip demonstrated his appallingly bad juggling skills while telling even worse jokes which were nonetheless hysterically funny. Even Hoshi had been persuaded to join in, singing a traditional Vulcan lullaby, though T'Pol assured Archer it was a song designed to teach Vulcan children the art of meditative discipline by inducing a clear-minded state.

The music was the thing that held each act together; the majority of the performances surrounded a range of instrumental and vocal talent that surprised even Archer – he knew each of his crew's personnel files, and he realised that some had been more forthcoming than others about their musical inclinations. Pieces played ranged from classical to rock, jazz, industrial, modern pop and everything in between. However, it did not surprise him to see Ensign D'Arcy take the drum kit for many of the acts wanting a backline; the ensign even performed a couple of skilful solos that Phlox in particular appeared to enjoy. Lt. Brogan joined in one or two of the acts; usually playing guitar and providing backing vocals. Eventually, however, she and D'Arcy took to the stage together and she went straight for the main microphone. Chief Petty Officer Romano picked up an acoustic guitar; Archer turned to ask Reed what he thought Brogan might be performing, but to his surprise, the lieutenant was getting to his feet and heading for the stage; Archer could only watch in stunned silence as Reed took a seat in front of the electric piano; sitting side on to the audience, facing Brogan. She grinned at him and nodded; even Trip looked shocked. Clearly, this part had not been included in rehearsals. Reed flexed his hands, and then, to everyone's astonishment, except for possibly those on stage, and T'Pol of course – he played through a quick but unerringly accurate warm-up scale.

"Well I'll be damned," Archer muttered, leaning back in his seat.

"Captain?" T'Pol queried.

"I had no idea Malcolm played piano."

"Lt. Reed is extremely reserved – for a human. Perhaps he did not wish to boast of his musical accomplishment?"

Archer made a non-committal noise, his attention already back on the makeshift stage. Brogan stepped up to the microphone; she sang the first line unaccompanied.

"I keep on fallin'..."

Reed joined in on the piano; the music was slow, melodic, soulful and heartfelt. Romano took up the melody, plucking soft notes on the guitar, her husky voice adding depth with sympathetic backing vocals, as D'Arcy tapped out the rhythm and kept a beat going.

"... In and out... of love... with you. Sometimes I love ya... sometimes you make me blue. Sometimes I feel good... at times I feel used. Lovin' you darlin'... makes me so confused. I keep on fallin' in and out of love with you. I never loved someone, the way that I love you..."

The song was an old one, by Archer's reckoning, but then Brogan seemed to know an awful lot of very old music. She sang softly, the words laden with feeling, but it was Reed who held Archer's attention; head bowed over the piano, he played with an accuracy and smooth skill that indicated a life-time of practice at the instrument.

"Oh, oh , I never felt this way... How do you give me so much pleasure, and cause me so much pain? Just when I think I've taken more than would a fool... I start fallin' back in love with you..."

The chorus repeated several times and the song faded away, as Brogan and Romano held that last note in perfect tune. The audience clapped appreciatively, but the applause was almost ignored as Brogan held up one hand and gestured a rhythm in the air; D'Arcy matched it with a single drum beat.

"And-a-one, and-a-two, and-a-three, and-a-four..."

Reed struck a sudden, hard chord on the piano, and Archer recognised the opening bars of Beethoven's fifth, a classical piece. The other three on the stage waited patiently as he played a few bars, reached the crescendo, and then the music took a sudden wild, frenzied turn, sliding back down the scale and picking up a faster, lively pace; drums, guitar and vocals joined in, bang on cue.

"I'm gonna write a little letter gonna mail it to my local D.J!" Brogan sang, fast, her voice taking on a rougher, raw edge, "it's a rockin' little record I want my jockey to play, yeah! Roll over, Beethoven, I gotta hear it again today!"

Archer found himself nodding slightly in time with the fast beat, and he could see other crewmembers similarly nodding or tapping their feet; a few had given up their seats altogether to go to the back of the room to dance properly. Phlox was observing the whole proceedings with undisguised delight.

"You know my temperature's rising, and the jukebox's blown a fuse. My heart's beating rhythm, and my soul keeps on singing the blues. Roll over Beethoven, and tell Tchaikovsky the news!"

Brogan paused, with a smile, meeting Archer's gaze briefly, and then she leaned into the microphone.

"I got a rocking pneumonia, I need a shot of rhythm and blues. I think I got it off the writer, sittin' down by the rhythm review. Roll over Beethoven - we're rockin' in two by two! Well if you feel you like it, then get your lover and reel and rock it. Roll it over and move on up now, just jump around and reel and rock it... Roll it over; roll over Beethoven, a rockin' in two by two, oh!"

There was an instrumental break for a moment as Brogan caught her breath, grinning broadly across at Romano, then D'Arcy and finally at Reed, before she resumed; "Oh, early in the mornin' I'm-a givin' you the warnin', don't you step on ma blue suede shoes! Oh, hey diddle diddle, gonna play my fiddle, I ain't got nothin' to lose. Roll over Beethoven, and tell Tchaikovsky the news!"

Archer found himself smiling in return; while the lyrics made little to no sense, the fast tune and lively pace were catchy.

"Ooh, you know she winks like a glow worm an' dances like a spinnin' top! She gotta crazy partner, y'oughta see them reel and rock. Long as she's got a dime, the music'll never stop, yeah! Roll over Beethoven, roll over Beethoven, roll over Beethoven, and dig these rhythm and blues, yeah!"

The song ended with a crash from the drum cymbals and the audience cheered, applauding loudly. Brogan smiled, nodding, her face flushed, whether from the effort of singing or embarrassment at the response Archer could not tell. She put her hand over the microphone and turned to Reed, asking a question. The lieutenant shrugged and Archer saw him wince, putting his hand briefly to his recently injured arm. Brogan queried something but Reed shook his head, flexed his hands, and rested them lightly on the small, upright electric piano. Brogan turned to D'Arcy and Romano, but they were already setting down their instruments and bowing their way off the stage to rapturous applause. Brogan unhooked her microphone and crossed to the piano, leaning on it, as Reed played a few soft chords. Silence fell across the expectant, crowded room; the only sound came from the piano, until Brogan began to sing, softly, quietly.

"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in... there's an old man sittin' next to me, makin' love to his tonic and gin."

Archer nearly fell out of his chair in shock when it was Reed, not Brogan, who sang the second verse in a clear, crisp tenor; "He says; son, can you play me a memory? I'm not really sure how it goes... but it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger man's clothes."

Brogan rejoined singing and the chorus became a tuneful duet; "La, da-da, diddy da-da, da-dum, dum, dum, dum... Sing us a song, you're the piano man – sing us a song, tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feelin' alright!"

Leaning her elbow casually on the piano, Brogan addressed the audience; "Now John at the bar is a friend of mine, he gets me my drinks for free; and he's quick with a joke, or to light up your smoke, but there's someplace that he'd rather be. He says, girl, I believe this is killin' me, as the smile ran away from his face; well, I'm sure that a could be a move star, if I could get out of this place!"

"Now Paul is a real estate novelist, who never had time for a wife," Reed took up the song, still concentrating on the piano and the microphone in front of him, "And he's talking with Davy, who's still in the Navy, and probably will be for life."

A crescendo built as Brogan joined her voice with Reed's to sing; "And the waitress is practicin' politics, as the businessmen slowly get stoned. Yes they're sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it's better than drinkin' alone!"

A few of the braver and more attentive members of the audience joined in with the simple chorus, as the two lieutenants on stage continued their duet.

"Sing us a song, you're the piano man – sing us a song, tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feelin' alright!"

The tone softened a little, as Brogan and Reed sang together, their voices perfectly matched, her alto to his tenor; "It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday, and the manager gives us a smile, 'cause he knows that it's we, they've been coming to see, to forget about life for a while..."

A crescendo climbed with a slight key change and Brogan lifted her voice powerfully, even as Reed sang the tune with her; "And the piano sounds like a carnival! And the microphone smells like a beer! And they sit at the bar, and put bread in our jar, and say; man! What are you doin' here?"

Brogan made a broad, sweeping gesture, and this time most of the audience joined in with the now-familiar chorus:

"Sing us a song, you're the piano man – sing us a song, tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feelin' alright! ...Sing us a song, you're the piano man – sing us a song, tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feelin' alright!"

The song – and the night – ended with a standing ovation. Brogan took an exaggerated bow, and then flung her hands in an open gesture towards Reed, who stood, and bowed with a lot more reserve. He stepped off the stage to be almost knocked off his feet by the enthusiastic Trip congratulating them both on their performance; Archer smiled as Reed, clearly embarrassed, tried to wave off the praise. Shaking his head, he stood up, and stepped onto the stage. Immediately, the noise and clapping ceased, as all eyes turned to the Captain.

"Don't panic," he smiled, "I'm not going to torture you all with my singing!"

"Thank God for that!" said a very Southern-accented voice from somewhere to stage left.

Archer gave his chief engineer a mock scowl, and then continued; "I just wanted to personally thank everyone who has make tonight possible; those who manufactured and donated items for use this evening, to all of those behind the scenes who made it possible, and of course, a big round of applause to all of our performers!"

The applause was loud, enthusiastic and punctuated with whistles and cheers; even T'Pol joined in with a single, dignified nod of acknowledgement.

"Thank y'all for comin'!" Trip announced, as the applause finally quieted, "now, anyone who wants to volunteer to stay an' help clean up is more than welcome...?"

There was a smattering of laughter as the assembled crew got to their feet; most left to take up duty shifts or return to their quarters while a few remained to reclaim props and instruments or to help return the mess hall to normal. Archer saw Brogan helping D'Arcy to disassemble the drum kit and crossed over to them.

"An excellent performance tonight," Archer commended them, "really well done – we will have to do it again some time."

"I was thinking of petitioning to have the piano as a regular fixture in the mess hall," Brogan grinned, "now the engineers have built and programmed it they don't really know what to do with it and Malcolm says it won't fit in his quarters."

"Permission granted," Archer told her, with a broad smile, "leave it in the corner, perhaps Lt. Reed will grace us with a concert some time! Speaking of whom, where is he?"

"Hopefully, on his way to his quarters," Brogan replied, passing the cymbals to D'Arcy carefully, "He wanted to escape the crowd... besides, I think his arm's achin' him and he looked knackered. He's just left – you might still catch him if you're quick."

"Will do. Thanks. And congratulations again – it was a great night!"

Archer left the mess hall, nodding to a few crewmembers as he passed, moving swiftly through the corridors. He made it to the nearest turbo-lift, waited impatiently for a few moments for it to arrive, and then finally stepped inside, selecting deck six. As he stepped out onto the deck, however, his rapid pace immediately slowed, and he winced inwardly; a familiar figure was leaning against the bulkhead, head down, as if fighting to stave off a wave of dizziness. However, as Archer approached, Reed straightened up, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes widened fractionally and he quickly brought himself upright; "Sir!"

"At ease, lieutenant," Archer smiled and waved his hand, and then aborted his gesture to grab Reed's arm as the lieutenant swayed slightly on his feet; "Whoa, easy there – looks like you overdid it a bit this evening. You're supposed to be taking it easy, remember?"

"Aye, sir," Reed mumbled, taking a deep breath and steadying himself, "I'm... I'm fine, captain. Sorry."

Archer released him, and then silently gestured down the hall. With a nod, Reed moved away from the wall, heading towards his quarters. Archer fell into step beside him, deciding to confront the evening's revelation head-on.

"So... I didn't know you played piano, Malcolm."

"Nobody does, sir," Reed replied, with a tired snort, "My parents – well, my mother really – forced me to learn. My father had the Navy and his insect collection, and my mother had a piano. I had to learn to please both of them... I practiced every day from the age of five until I left to join Starfleet. I gave it up immediately, just as I gave up the Navy..."

"But...?" Archer prompted him, when he trailed off.

"But Brogan," Reed huffed, but there was amusement in his tone, "and bloody Section 31. We were in some grotty little bar in one of the smaller outposts adjacent to '66, following a lead, but our contact stood us up. To pass the time we were drinking a few beers and there was an upright piano in the corner. I don't know why but I started to play, just a few old tunes, nothing too refined, didn't want to give myself away. That's when Brogan found out I could play and I found out that she's got a head full of ancient song lyrics. It became a perfect cover that Section 31 took full advantage of..." Reed hesitated, and then, quietly, added; "When I quit Section 31, I stopped playing again, but I regretted it that time."

"Well, it looks like the piano is about to become a permanent fixture in the mess hall, so you can play whenever you wish, Malcolm," Archer told him, as they arrived outside the lieutenant's quarters, "though if I were you, I'd wait until your arm is properly healed. Get some rest – you look like you need it."

"Thank you, sir," Reed smiled softly, "good night, captain."

"Good night, lieutenant."

Reed watched as the Captain turned around and walked back the way they had come. He keyed open the door to his quarters and stepped inside. He stripped off his uniform and pushed it into the laundry chute, before climbing into bed and dimming the lights, settling back into the pillow as he tried to ignore the dull ache from his still-healing arm. He was just dozing off when he heard a couple of crewmen singing in the corridor as they headed towards their own quarters; "Sing us a song, you're the piano man – sing us a song, tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feelin' alright..."

He groaned as the realisation dawned; it was going to take months to live down the inevitable "Piano Man" nickname...

* * *

Finis


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